ERIN
I’m really pushing through trying to make it to L.A. today, but I don’t know if I can drive too much longer. It’s only been seven hours since we left Roswell, and I’ve finally reached Flagstaff, Arizona. We could have made it into Nevada if it weren’t for Sasha having me pull over multiple times so she could take photos of random junk piles of cars or abandoned gas stations. She’s the photographer, so who am I to judge, especially when I’ve subjected her to a playlist of obscure bands that rock only my world.
Flagstaff is a small mountain college town with pine trees and rustic brick buildings. When we strutted into town with my rental car that now has more miles on it than my bicycle, the elevation marker says we are at about 7,000 feet above sea level. No wonder the rental car was
