We’ve just left Four Corners. We meaning my boyfriend, Ken, and I. Four Corners meaning the point where Utah, Arizona, Colorado and New Mexico meet. If you’ve ever thought about going to Four Corners, don’t bother. I mean, it’s kind of cool taking pictures of yourself standing in all four states at once, but there’s nothing there. Nothing other than a little monument, a couple of ripe-smelling port-a-potties and some plywood shacks selling Indian fry bread.

We should already be in Denver. We left Los Angeles early enough on day one, but we got a late start out of Las Vegas on day two and that’s thrown our whole cross-country driving schedule off kilter. I blame those damn slot machines and that $3.99 steak and eggs breakfast special.

Up till now I’ve been having a pretty good time. I slurped down a Krispy Kreme hot off the conveyer belt in Vegas. I got a true sense of vertigo at the Hoover Dam. I saw my first live deer up close at the Grand Canyon. But the thought of driving through Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio and even Colorado is starting to worry me.

They just arrested that guy who’s been going around shooting at blacks and Asians. Allegedly, he was part of some white supremacist group that believes that all non-whites are "mud people." Back when this trip was still in its planning stages, I joked about getting some tee-shirts with the words "I is not Mud People" printed across the front. It doesn’t seem so funny any more.

I know I could be a victim of a racial hate crime anywhere, but I’m feeling especially jumpy now that I’m entering the Midwest. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that Ken and I have been the only non-whites at every gas station, rest stop and diner since we left Arizona. Call me strange, but that sort of thing makes me feel like I stand out.

On top of all this, Roland’s acting up--Roland being our 1990 Volkswagen Golf. He’s got almost a hundred thousand miles on him, and he gets a little crotchety when it rains, when it’s cold, when it’s hot, when the road's hilly-- basically, all the time. He’s glad to leave the 100-degree weather behind in Arizona, but the cold rain in Colorado is making him cranky. Plus, Wolf’s Creek Pass, our ticket through the Continental Divide at an elevation of 10,857 feet, is adding to his distress.

Although we hurtled along the flat roads of Nevada at 90 miles per hour, we’re now huffing and puffing up Wolf’s Creek at a painful 15 miles per hour. This despite Ken putting the pedal to the metal, so to speak. Minivans, school buses, even 18-wheelers are passing us.

Half-way up the mountain the traffic thins out until its just us on the road. All the rain is making me want to pee, but I doubt we’re going to see a rest stop until we get across the pass. At the rate we’re going, that won’t be for hours. All my talk about peeing is making Ken want to pee. The situation is getting desperate. At the next scenic lookout, Treasure Falls, we pull over.

Ken goes first. He waddles away from the car and ducks behind a tree. When it’s my turn, I scurry down into a little gulch and squat under my umbrella. Sweet relief. It’s kind of nice peeing in nature, I think to myself. A little field mouse hops over to me, ponders my foot, and hops away. When finished, I quickly pull up my pants and straighten up. And that’s when I see the stranger.

A gentleman clad completely in black leather gets off his motorcycle. I look over at Ken in the safety of Roland and silently curse him. The biker pulls off his helmet, and I think to myself, "He’s white. He has no chin."

I try to act casual, forcing myself to walk slowly back to the car. The biker stares at me the whole time. "Beautiful falls, aren’t they?" I say, grabbing at the car door. He doesn’t say a word. He just slowly reaches into his leather knapsack. I imagine him pulling out a shotgun, a noose, a chain saw. I don’t wait around to find out. Instead I yank the car door open, jump in and throw Roland into reverse.

"Come on, Roland, come on!" I mutter. I floor it, and we make our getaway at 5 miles per hour. The biker could probably stroll along and catch up to us if he wanted to. But he doesn’t, and he fades off in the misty rain until I can no longer see him in the rearview mirror.