Fifty miles East of Reno, and ten thousand more to go.

It was just past noon, and the sun was pummeling the paved highway of the dry and dusty Nevada desert. Waves of heat rose from the surface, giving the horizon an eerie appearance. Not a tree stood, nor water flowed; not a touch of greenery. This land was barren, and it felt like death.

The dusty old Ford pickup rolled to a stop on the side of the road, skidding in the dust. The driver’s side door opened and two beaten and abused brown leather cowboy boots stomped on the dirt. The car door creaked on its hinges as it slammed shut, as an old saloon shutter might, neglected through time.

He briefly wondered just how hot it was as he lit a cigarette. He gazed at the flame emitting from his silver Zippo lighter, before flicking it shut with style. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and ran down the bridge of his nose, and stung his eyes. Cursing, he closed them, and turned his face towards the sun, feeling the unrelenting heat and reveling in it. He took another drag off his unfiltered cigarette, inhaled deeply, and opened his eyes.

His left arm was sunburned from carelessly hanging it out the truck window. He always drove with the window down. Especially in this weather, in the middle of August, in the middle of nowhere. He rubbed the soreness out of his elbow and rolled up the sleeve of his white tshirt, up over his bicep and up to his shoulder. He spun around on his heels and leaned up against the truck, and heaved a sigh.

The road was calling, tugging at his soul, urging him to move along and keep moving, as it had all his life. There are men in this world that can never see enough, never do enough, never experience enough. They hear the call of the open road and they must answer. These are not the men that settle down, take a wife, raise some kids, and work. No, he was the type of man that lived life every day, not put it off. These men live fast, and hard. And die young.

He liked to stop in places like this. Way out here, out in the middle of nowhere–it’s quiet. All you can hear is the howling of the wind. He heard it now, and it sounded like his own name, sweet and soothing, like a lover’s call. He took another long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette, and folded his arms across his chest.

He let his mind wander. He was thinking of her again, as he always did. He could never seem to get her out of his mind, his memories, or his soul. And now he could smell her perfume, the kind that made him swoon. He could taste her sweet lips and hear her melodic voice. It was pleasant to think of her, too pleasant. He didn’t want to remember. He was running away from her now, wandering, rambling, moving on.

He shook his head and tried to think of something else. One last drag off his cigarette now. He dropped it from between his two fingers, and watched it tumble end over end down to the asphalt, and bounce. As he lifted his right foot to crush the butt, his joints creaked, an old injury from long ago, from another life, when he was not the man he was today.

He looked behind him, and saw the outline of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. On this side one would not see what one might expect. All the pretty pine and oak trees and coniferous forests are on the Western side. Here on the East side it was all desert, but no less beautiful. This time of day the light played upon its canvas of granite and sandstone, and dust and dirt, and looked as blood. His eyes surveyed the scene before him one last time, locked in memory. It was time to go.

He reached down with his grubby hand and hooked it under the door latch. He swung himself into the cab of the beat-up Ford, and continued his journey, and tried to leave his past behind. As he drove, the beat of the road was like a metronome, and was the same as his pulse.