Rush Hour on Mars
HOW TOM REYNOLDS AND CHRISTIAN BRECHEIS EXPERIENCED THE ATACAMA DESERT.
Like low-grade Dean Moriarty’s a half-dozen, half strangers said yes to a challenge jam-packed full of juxtapositions.
Having answered in the affirmative we agreed to be On The Road. As one.
Toeing the line; toeing one long white line.
Finding the way was simple. There was just one long road.
What we needed was to find familiarity. Common ground. Commonality.
So, let’s begin.
Just suppose.
We juxtapose.
Your life
And my life.
And make it our life.
For one weekend.
On one road.
On the road.
Our road.
Just suppose.
We juxtapose.
The six faces of this new team’s juxtaposition.
Onto a blank canvas.
This race with no real mission.
Per se.
Just a journey.
From A-B.
With you three, us two, and me.
In trucks together.
But on the road.
Alone.
One Hundred Years of Solitude?
Not quite.
More like 100 seconds.
This was the night.
And we had nothing to offer.
Except our own confusion.
Alone.
Unseeing.
With an unseen baton.
To continually pass on.
Hand-to-hand.
Distant rumble.
Trucks pass.
Trucking on.
Into the dawn.
And with it, the sun arrives to juxtapose again.
High contrasts.
High-altitude high jinks.
Low light, low moods.
Handcuffs.
And hands of friendship.
Dancing beside the highway.
This team’s tarmac tormentor.
Very. Nearly. Tamed.
And just like that.
We’re finished.
By the side of a white cross.
Stark, against the blackest of nights.
A contrast again.
Cold night and warm champagne, the final juxtaposition.
Just suppose.
Six strangers.
Become friends.
On The Road.
Our one, long deserted desert road.
WORDS: TOM REYNOLDS
PICTURES: CHRISTIAN BRECHEIS
