TO MARS AND BACK IN THE MOTHER OF ALL RANGE ROVERS

By Cole Coonce
4/8/05

“I thought you were bringing the telescope,” she exhaled.

“I would have, but I couldn’t figure out how to open the tailgate. I’ve had an easier time putting together a tent in a sandstorm. I looked for a keyhole. Nada. Then I pushed a bunch of buttons and nothing happened. If I pushed any more buttons, I was afraid I would’ve launched a rocket.”

“Like that’s a bad thing.”

“In the today’s Color Coded Age of Terror, it is important not to send up any flares.”

“Right. Did you look at the owner’s manual?”

“The what?”

We were driving up the Angeles Forest in a new $73,000 Range Rover that I was to test drive for some men’s magazine. Coincidentally, Mars was at its closest proximity to Planet Earth in eons. I wanted to climb a mountain and see if I could touch Mars. It seemed to make sense to take the vehicle that shared its moniker with the craft that scientists sent to putt-putt on our celestial neighbor.

She began punching buttons on the instrument panel. “Can you set the personal navigation system for Mars?” she asked.

“Sure, just key in the co-ordinates. Just don’t use the metric system like NASA did that time.”

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We continued our ascent in a silver truck-cum Rolling Geosphere for the red planet, with Glenn Gould playing Bach as a soundtrack. She wanted to hear James Brown. We settled on the Saints, some prime, vintage punk rock.

DER-Duh Dah, Duh, DAH DAH DAH DAH DAH DAH DAH DAH DAHH…

The stereo was louder than a Shuttle Launch. And much crisper. I drove faster.

“Stranded, I’m so far from home Stranded, You gotta’ leave me alone.”