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It's almost 24 hours since we left Los Angeles. As we drive over the last of the foothills, the glittering lights of Albuquerque cover the broad valley in front of us. On the far side of the valley is the goal for the night, Mom's. Hot showers, comfy beds, and good food in abundance. We wind our way through the Sandia foothills to our parking spots for the night.

The next morning, we linger a little longer than planned. A leisurely breakfast is irresistible. At last we're departing, except the Jag seems to be having a small problem. One of JT's well worn automotive cliches was, "If it's got ignition and it's got fuel, it's gotta run." The Jag had both, but was a little short on compression, and the temperatures in the New Mexico foothills the night after Christmas were just a bit cool for the southern Cal expatriate. Thus started a ritual that would be executed in some form every morning for the duration of the trip. What foresight to park the old gal facing downhill. The family pushes her over the hump and, at the moment of optimum momentum, JT pops the clutch and presto: our patient is shocked to life.

At my insistence, there will be a stop at Sears to buy a real jack, despite the protest that it's a waste of time and $10.45. We get back on Highway 40 and head east to our next stop, yet another Union 76 truck stop on the outskirts of Tucumcari. The Jag's appetite for 20-50 seems to be increasing; it wants quart number four of the six that JT packed. There's a stop at a parts store in our future.

It's dusk when we cross into the panhandle. Oil fields and refineries look eerie as darkness closes in, backlit by dusk-to-dawn lights. Close to midnight, we pull off at Shamrock, Texas, heading down a four-lane street to the nearest gas station. As JT attends to things under the bonnet, I take a moment to check out the surroundings and try to get a sense of night life in Shamrock. Some of Shamrock's youngest drivers are parked in a huddle in an unlit parking lot across the street. A car leaves and cruises down the street. Soon, another joins it. Then another car pulls into the lot. In a few minutes, they all drift out and disappear down the street. The area becomes desolate.

In the distance, a new sound emerges; the distinctive engine clatter of the air-cooled VW. The veteran Type II bus floats into the station drive, accessorized with tie-dye curtains, bumper stickers, and sporting a Michigan plate. The side door slides open and out tumble several of the occupants, who could be students, and yes, it's true, they're on winter break. Destination: the Coliseum in Frisco for the New Year's Eve Dead show. I'm visualizing the Type II chugging up the 7000 feet to Flagstaff. I wonder if they'll make it there, and I wonder if they'll make it back before classes start. I wonder how many parents will be stuck with plane fare.

We pack it up and head out of Shamrock for the Oklahoma border. Not far over the border, we pull into a rest stop and crawl into the back of the wagon for the night. Our morning starts sometime after daylight and traffic noise wakes us. No radios, no clocks. My relationship with linear time is starting to erode. Breakfast is at yet another Union 76 truck stop. The waitress darts around with coffee and menus. Everyone is "Hun" or "Sugar." We'll press on to Oklahoma City, where we'll stop at a parts store. JT is pulling a few extra layers out of the duffle to keep the chill of the heatless Jag at bay.

It's starting to rain as we approach the city, and midday traffic is brisk. There's no relaxing on these inner city expressways as JT's unpredictable maneuvers keep me on high alert. And now there's the added thrill of a thumping vibration emanating from somewhere in the back of the wagon. My focus is split between tailing the Jag and diagnosing this new problem. I'm formulating Plan B as the vibration escalates to a major pounding. Not a moment too soon, the Jag signals our exit. A quick examination in the parts store parking lot reveals ply separation in the driver's side rear tire. I wonder how much life is left in the rest of the set as JT swaps the disintegrating remains for another bias-ply wonder and announces we're running behind. "Behind what?" I wonder. He gets a case of 20-50 and we head for the tollway.

It's one of those grey, damp, gloomy days that give you no visual clues about the passing of time. We make steady progress toward the Missouri border. The drizzle changes to light rain and that changes to rain mixed with snow as we approach the border. The toll road changes back to full access, and slush is accumulating on the road. I can't believe I'm feeling it the first time it happens, but the second time, there's no denying that the bridges are icing and the little Volvo suffers from a temporary loss of adhesion while crossing the overpasses.

We stop in Joplin for more oil and gas. I'm thinking it might make sense to pull off for the night and -- God -- forbid get a hotel room. But no, it's still light, we'll be really behind, and the roads aren't that bad. "Are we from the Midwest or what?" I dig out my Carhartts, down vest and wooly mittens. A bulkier me wedges behind the steering wheel.

The road gets steadily worse. Greasy wet snow is sticking on the pavement and cars. Not a problem for the little Volvo, as defroster and single wiper are working like champs. I wonder how the Jag is doing, and the answer becomes apparent as I watch incredulously as JT leans out the window with an ice scraper at 50 mph and unloads the windshield. I cross myself.

All of the cars on this road are not staying on the road; they're littered at increasingly frequent intervals in the median. I notice the Jag is pulling up really close behind a semi, then backing off and repeating the maneuver. It must be the new and improved windshield clearing technique. The truck sprays salty slush on the windshield and the lone wiper clears it.

It's starting to get dark as the traffic slows to a pace just above creeping. The Jag is now half a dozen cars ahead and I'm boxed in. When I try to pass a semi pulling a pup heading downhill, the pup starts kicking out. I back off. The Jag has disappeared. At this point, dear readers, some rather unflattering thoughts about my vanishing partner are going through my head, alternating with feelings of growing devotion for the reliable little 122.

There were a couple of things I didn't know at this point. One, JT wasn't just indulging in that life-long fantasy of becoming a professional stunt driver; the Jag's throttle had stuck. Two, we were in the middle of a winter storm that was shutting down everything from Missouri to northern Indiana. We would have known if only we'd had a radio. Not that it would have stanched the madness, but...

For a fleeting moment I thought, "I've got a hundred dollars in my pocket. I oughta put this ride in the ditch and stick out my thumb." Then the Voice of Reason kicked in and it said, "You know, it looks like a battle zone here. Modern cars and trucks are off the road all over the place, and this twenty-year-old Volvo stays right where you put it and it feels pretty good." I always liked the old Volvos, but now I loved them.

It seems like hours before I spot the Jag pulled over on an uphill exit ramp near Springfield. I mentally thank multiple deities and head up the ramp. We aim for the big orange Union 76 truck stop sign. The 50 miles between Joplin and Springfield has taken close to five grueling, nerve- racking hours. The truck stop is jammed; every room for miles has been taken for hours. The building is full of stranded travelers. People are napping in booths and corners.

JT declares us professional drivers and heads toward the Drivers Only section. We no sooner slide into our seats than he's talking about getting back on the road. He's fidgeting nervously with a cigarette and has that adrenalin-crazed glint in his eye. With the tone of the double dare, I announce that "I'm not driving another [expletive deleted] mile tonight -- you're on your own." From the next table behind a thick haze of cigarette smoke, a large man with drooping eyes looks squarely at JT and says, "She's right, son."

I spot the sign for the Drivers Only locker room and there's one for lady drivers. Yes! I collect my carry-on bag from the car and shuffle unnoticed into the stark retreat. A hot shower is an incredibly decadent treat, even if it's a room that looks like a bunker. Bonus: I have it all to myself!

A big drop in temperature requires sleeping in every layer of clothing we can pile on, and it's not quite enough. Morning light finally filters through the thickly frosted windows of the wagon. The sky's clearing and the sun is appearing from behind the clouds. We head a bit stiffly across the crowded snow-piled parking lot for a quick breakfast.

As we head back to the cars, I indulge in an escapist fantasy. As the "Carhartt Poster Girl," I've achieved fame, fortune, and a lifetime supply of incredibly cool work clothes in exchange for my true-life testimonial: "Carhartts saved my life!" The bubble bursts as JT pulls the tow strap out of the Jag's boot. My job is to drag her around the parking lot 'til I hear the unmistakable sound of a Jag six coming to life, or until the driver makes frantic, indecipherable hand signals.

Back on the highway, one lane is mostly clear. We're driving through the Ozarks heading for St. Louis. If you can relax a bit and look around, the view is stunning. Every tree branch is topped with snow and the sun is bouncing off the hillsides.

Midday traffic is heavy in St. Louis but the roads are clear. I manage to stay with the Jag and even get a pretty good look at the Mississippi as we cross over. Southern Illinois apparently suffered from either a failure, or a complete lack, of snow removal equipment. As we leave the urban landscape behind, the roads get steadily worse. The snow has been packed, not plowed, and the effect is not unlike a gravel road after the spring thaw. We thump and vibrate our way past vehicular carnage reminiscent of the night before: cars are littered off either side of the highway. A small crew is offloading a semi lain flat on its side. It goes on and on for miles.

We stop in a small town for another gas and oil break. A large young man on crutches with a cast up to his knee is working his way toward the gas station door when he stops, turns ninety degrees and stares at the Jag. He looks at JT and drawls, "Is that uh old Jagwaaar?" Could it be the leaping cat on the bonnet that gave it away?

The Jag now requires quart number four of the new case of 20-50. This would make a total of 10 since we started. We wouldn't find it 'til the trip was over, but the incessant pounding had caused a stress fracture in the left rear wheel well of the Jag. The Volvo was in much better shape than the Jag or its pilot, who was starting to feel a bit worn.

Across the Indiana border, the snow on the roads gradually changed to a slushy mess. Outside of Indianapolis we pull into, yes, another Union 76 truck stop and this one is packed. It's 9:00 p.m.; we've been on the road for 12 hours, and my constitution is starting to launch a protest against truck stop food and the press-on-regardless itinerary. My stomach flops and rolls over at the thought of coffee, so I order hot tea and a plain baked potato, then declare a nap break before I drive another inch.

A little after midnight, we're back on the road because, as JT would say, "We know how to have fun." As we head toward Fort Wayne, the roads are steadily improving and traffic thins to practically nothing. The truck stop on the north side of Fort Wayne will be the last stop 'til we reach home. Another four hours to go, if all's right with the world. My ears are shocked when the waitress says, "You guys" instead of "Y'all." We joke with the waitress as she says, "You drove what from where?!" I play a couple of tunes on the juke box.

Through a big yawn I suggest we quit for the night. We don't have to be anywhere tomorrow, so we might as well take it easy.

"We can't stop. We've gotta be in town by morning."

"What for? We don't have to be anywhere."

"We gotta get in because the Jag's losing its brakes."

"OK, I get it: The Jag's losing its brakes so we've got to drive faster and further, right?"

"Precisely."

As JT dumps quart number 12 in the oil filler, I contemplate karmic debt and possible atrocities I might have committed in a past life to be dealt this wonderful opportunity to pay back a past life debt. Perhaps mass genocide? We drive into the dark, flat, sleeping countryside heading north for the Michigan border. By my calculations, we'll reach Lansing about 7:00 a.m., just before the morning rush. All I have to do is keep my eyes open and stay on the road.

About a half hour from Lansing, dawn is just starting to break. Either it's a new problem for the Jag or my eyes are shot. It's the Jag: the tail lights flicker, then go out. It still seems to have headlights. Hmm, Lucas: Prince of what? I close the gap between the cars.

It's off the highway to the surface streets on the south side of town with less than an hour to home. Coming off the ramp, I can't help but notice that either JT has given up on braking or the Jag's lost its brake lights. I flash my lights and lean out the window and shout the news. He yells back, "Cover my ass!" and takes off like someone dropped the flag. We careen through the thankfully light early morning traffic. The Jag hits the next two stop lights on yellow turning red and I fly through on the red muttering epithets.

As we pull up in front of the house, I briefly consider kissing the ground and decide to kiss my pillow instead. I've been driving 19 out of the last 24 hours, and anything that gets between me and my bed will die. As I'm drifting off to sleep, I hear JT from the next room asking, "Honey, have you seen the keys to the Jag? I can't find them." I mutter under my breath, "Ask someone who gives a shit" and promise myself never to cross the state line with this man again.

See more of Dean's artwork at: www.dvavak.com