 |
| Talking Story with Arlo |
Picture this: a late-night text lights up my phone like a flare in the desert night.
It’s from Doris Day—not the Doris Day, that Hollywood songbird, but my Doris Day, a British firecracker who traded her banker’s briefcase for a dune buggy and a zest for life that could make a cactus blush.
Her message?
An invite to a five-day escapade at Lake Powell with her 55-plus dune buggy club, a ragtag crew of silver-haired thrill-seekers ready to tear up the sand and float on houseboats. I nearly catapulted out of my recliner, texting back, “Count me in, desert queen!
When and where?” Moments later, her reply: “Usual casino parking lot, Saturday, 5 a.m. sharp. Bring coffee, you daft yank.” I grinned, already picturing the chaos. Doris and I aren’t a couple—perish the thought!
We’re lone wolves, best pals who howl together under the stars, keeping our lives separate but our adventures intertwined.
This, dear reader, is the tale of our most epic “date” yet, dripping with comedy, exaggeration, and the kind of freedom that makes your soul sing. Doris is a marvel, a powerhouse with a posh British accent that could make a tax code sound like poetry.
Retired from the cutthroat world of finance, she now rules the dunes in her neon yellow dune buggy, a contraption so souped-up it could probably outrun a cheetah.
Me? I’m Arlo, a guy with a pickup truck, a thermos of coffee strong enough to wake a hibernating bear, and a knack for turning life’s mundane moments into laugh-out-loud sagas.
Our friendship is a masterpiece of independence—we don’t share addresses, life plans, or Netflix passwords, but we share a love for adventure, bad jokes, and the kind of chemistry that makes every outing feel like a blockbuster comedy.
Doris calls our meetups “daytime dates,” but this Lake Powell trip? Five days of pure, unfiltered madness? That’s a whole new level of Arlo-and-Doris shenanigans.
Saturday morning, I’m up before the roosters, hauling my truck to our usual casino parking lot. Doris is already there, rocking her aviator sunglasses and a neon visor that screams “I’m here to cause trouble.” “Arlo, don’t you dare spill that coffee,” she quips, tossing me the keys to her dune buggy.
We hitch it to my truck, and off we go, barreling toward Lake Powell, a three-hour drive that flies by in a blur of banter. Doris regales me with her latest tale—how she accidentally entered a monster truck rally and nearly won by charming the judges with her accent.
I counter with my own epic: the time I got lost in a Walmart, ended up in the camping aisle, and woke up cuddling a sleeping bag display.
By the time we hit Lake Powell, we’re cackling like hyenas, ready to unleash our brand of chaos on the desert. Lake Powell greets us like a sapphire dropped in a sea of red rock, its waters glinting under a sky so big it could swallow your ego whole.
The 55-plus club has already set up camp—a sprawling setup of houseboats bobbing like corks and dune buggies parked like a post-apocalyptic car show.
There’s about 20 of us, a merry band of gray-haired daredevils, including two retired chefs who’ve brought a smoker the size of a small shed, a mountain of brisket, and enough veggies to make a vegan weep with joy.
My contribution?
A bottomless supply of jokes so groan-worthy they’re practically performance art. Doris rolls her eyes, but her smirk betrays her—she’s hooked on my nonsense, and I’m hooked on her laughter. Day one kicks off with a dune buggy caravan that’s less “leisurely drive” and more “Mad Max: Silver Edition.”
Doris leads the charge, her buggy kicking up sand clouds that could blot out the sun. We bounce over dunes, swerve through canyons, and end with a “cocktail hour” where we circle the wagons and sip margaritas under a sky painted in purples and golds.
Doris leans over, her British lilt slicing through the desert breeze: “Arlo, these daytime dates are smashing, but five days? You’d better keep those jokes coming, old boy.” I wink, promising her a week of one-liners so bad they’ll make her beg for mercy.
The next morning, we board Doris’s rented houseboat—a floating palace with a motor that purrs like a contented cat, thanks to my years as a houseboat wrangler. I’m in my element, steering us into Lake Powell’s hidden coves where the water’s so clear you can see fish performing synchronized swimming routines.
The group scatters, each boat claiming its own slice of paradise. Doris and I anchor in a private inlet, the kind of place where the quiet is so deep it feels like the universe is holding its breath. We swim, we float, we trade stories about our separate lives—hers filled with mysterious travels to places she only hints at, mine littered with misadventures like the time I tried to “borrow” a neighbor’s llama for a petting zoo.
“Arlo,” she laughs, nearly falling off the boat, “you’re a walking sitcom.” I take a bow, nearly capsizing us both. Back at camp, the chefs work their magic. Brisket smoked to melt-in-your-mouth perfection, baked potatoes the size of footballs, and iced tea so sweet it could give you a cavity from across the table.
Cocktail hour at 5 p.m. is sacred—Doris hands me a martini, and I raise it to the desert gods, who are probably jealous of our good time. After dinner, we dance under a sky exploding with stars, our playlist swinging from Sinatra to AC/DC. Doris spins me around like a top, her laughter echoing across the lake.
Later, we take a moonlit stroll along the shore, holding hands not because we’re in love, but because sometimes you just need to hold onto someone who gets you. The moonlight on Lake Powell is so bright it could guide ships, and Doris whispers, “This is why we do it, Arlo. The world’s too big to sit still.
”The next few days are a glorious blur. Mornings start with dune buggy races, Doris tearing through the sand like a caffeinated jackrabbit while I try to keep up, shouting jokes over the roar of engines. “Why did the scarecrow become a motivational speaker? Because he was outstanding in his field!” Doris nearly crashes from laughing.
Afternoons, we’re back on the houseboat, cruising to new coves, diving into waters so warm they feel like a hug. One afternoon, as we float in our private paradise, I catch Doris staring at the horizon. “What’s on your mind, desert queen?” I ask. She grins. “Just thinking you’re the only bloke I’d let drive my buggy.”
High praise from a woman who trusts no one with her wheels. Nights are for campfires, where I spin yarns about my “dumbass life”—like the time I accidentally joined a senior bingo night and won a toaster I still haven’t figured out how to use. Doris howls, her posh accent making every quip sound like a royal decree.
As the trip winds down, a pang of sadness hits. Not because we’re leaving, but because moments this perfect are rare, like finding a four-leaf clover in a sandstorm. On the last day, we all hug it out, fire up our rigs, and head home.
I drop Doris off at the Avi Casino parking lot—our usual drop-off spot, because lone wolves don’t need addresses, just good company.
After our usual long soft embracing good bye kiss ...
“Until the next adventure, Arlo,” she says, peeling out in her buggy like a bat out of hell. Doris and I aren’t a couple, and that’s the magic of it. We’re two weirdos who thrive on our own but light up the desert when we’re together.
Lake Powell was our playground, our five-day date a masterpiece of chaos, laughter, and freedom. Here’s to Doris, to dune buggies, to starlit skies, and to the glory of being alive
—together, but always, gloriously, ourselves.
Groove is in the Heart - Arlo