First gear. I pull away from the gas station, praying that the extra coolant won’t come hissing and steaming out of cracks in the radiator before I can make it to Vegas.

Second gear. As I hit the onramp, I wipe the sweat from my brow with a discarded t-shirt and wish for the thousandth time that the air conditioning in my Jeep was functional.

Third gear. The giant feathered headdress on the “Buffalo Bill’s Casino” sign

dwindles in my rear view mirror as I merge into the busy afternoon traffic.

Fourth gear. And as I yank down hard on the gearstick, the shifter knob pops completely off into my hand. Oh, boy. 116 degrees here in the Mojave Desert, and the glue holding the knob in place had completely liquefied. This was my first day on the road after leaving my adopted hometown of Santa Barbara for the summer, and already I was getting in trouble. My vessel was no match for Mother Nature at her most extreme, and the high, cool mountain roads of Colorado that I craved were at least five hundred miles away. Waiting until July to embark on this road trip was beginning to look like a bad idea.