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| Talking Story with Arlo |
Day Dating Doris Day:
A Dune Buggy Adventure with Doris Day
It was a lazy Saturday morning, my designated cheat day, where the world feels like it’s on pause, and my brain’s happily idling.
I was sprawled out, thinking about nothing in particular—maybe swinging by the Hawaiian BBQ joint for some kalua pork—but instead, I whipped up some eggs and toast, the kind of breakfast that doesn’t demand much effort.
Just as I was settling into my plate, my phone rang, which is rare enough to make me raise an eyebrow. To my absolute shock, the caller ID flashed “Doris Day.”
Yep, that’s her real name, and no, she’s not the Hollywood legend, but she’s just as dazzling in her own way. Doris, my Volkswagen dune buggy buddy, was calling to ask me out on a day date.
Her ’67 yellow dune buggy, a twin to mine with that same trumpet exhaust growl, had just gotten a tune-up, and she wanted to take it for a spin to Las Vegas to catch the afternoon show at the Sphere—this massive, mind-bending orb plastered with wild graphics, usually hosting concerts but open for a visual spectacle that day.
“Meet me at the Avi Casino in the morning,” she said, her voice bubbling with excitement. I didn’t hesitate.
"Heck yeah,” I replied, already grinning.
Doris and I are what I call “daytime daters.” We met a couple of months back at a car show, where our matching dune buggies sparked a conversation that hasn’t stopped since.
We’d only gone out a few times before, twice for afternoon tea and to another car show, but she’s got this infectious energy—pretty as a desert sunrise, with a smile that could melt a cactus.
I’ve grown fond of her, though I don’t know much about her life beyond the fact that she lives nearby and loves her VW as much as I love mine.
There’s something special about being asked out as a guy, knowing she’s not just humoring you but genuinely wants to share the day. It’s the kind of thing that makes you feel ten feet tall.
So, come 7:00 a.m., I’m at the Avi Casino, parking my truck in the parking structure and scanning for Doris. I’m decked out in my desert-day-date uniform: shorts, flip-flops, an unmarked basball hat, and my trusty ski goggles for the buggy ride.
Those goggles are a must—between the wind, bugs, and whatever else the Mojave throws at you, they’re a lifesaver.
I flip my hat backward, strap on the goggles, and secure everything with the goggle's big elastic band. When Doris pulls up in her gleaming yellow dune buggy, she takes one look at me and giggles. “You look like Snoopy!” she says, and I can’t argue. I probably do, but I’m owning it.
We hop into her buggy, and let me tell you, it’s pristine—shiny, tuned to perfection, and ready to roar. Doris isn’t shy about putting her foot down, either. Holy moly, this girl loves speed, and as a guy who’s no stranger to tearing up high desert trails,
I’m all in.
Instead of the direct route to Vegas, we take the scenic path by Lake Mead, the kind of detour that makes you glad you’re alive. It’s about an hour’s drive, and we’re there by early afternoon, the lake sparkling under the sun.
As we cruise near the water, I tease Doris about her spotless buggy. “You avoid mud puddles, don’t you? Gotta keep that pretty ride clean, huh?” I say, poking fun at her polished VW compared to my
--"I need a bath" trail-thrashed one.
She just smirks, locks eyes with me, and floors it. Before I know it, she’s steering us straight into a mud bog near the lake’s edge. I grab the roll bar as she hits it hard, sending a wave of mud crashing over the windshield.
It’s a tsunami of sludge, soaking us both. My shorts, her clothes—everything’s caked. She doesn’t stop there, though. With a devilish grin, she circles back for two more runs, each one splattering us further. I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe. Her buggy’s no longer just a pretty face, and neither is she
—she’s a force of nature.
Now, we’re a mess, dripping with mud that’s already drying into crusty patches. I figure it’s time to show her the bachelor way of handling this. “Over there,” I point to some public showers by the campground.
“Let's take a shower—clothes and all.”
She raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but then shrugs and follows me. Turns out, it’s a blast. We stand under the spray, scrubbing mud off our clothes and laughing like kids.
There’s something about a soaked, smiling girl that hits you right in the heart, especially when you’re as smitten with your new friend as I am with Doris.
Living in the Mojave, drying off is no issue—ten minutes in the sun, and we’re good as new. I pull out some frozen wild strawberry tea I’d packed, now nicely thawed, and a couple of store-bought biscuits. It’s not gourmet, but it’s perfect.
Refreshed and refueled, we head to Las Vegas, where the Sphere looms like a giant, tripped-out disco ball. We snag tickets for the afternoon show and step inside, and let me tell you, the graphics are unreal—swirling, immersive visuals that make you feel like you’re floating through a dream.
For just a few bucks, it’s a steal, though I’m already plotting to come back for a concert someday, maybe with Doris.
After the show, we hit her favorite spot, the buffet at the Wynn Hotel. It’s a food lover’s paradise—piles of crab legs, sushi, prime rib, you name it. We eat, drink, and talk for a solid hour, the kind of conversation that flows so easy you lose track of time.
She’s funny, sharp, and has this way of looking at you that makes the rest of the world fade away.
As the afternoon stretches into evening, we decide to head back before dark—old people habits, I guess. Doris drives us back to the Avi, her buggy humming like a happy beast.
She pulls up to my truck, and we get out,
--she walks up to me, grabs me, pulls me close, and plants a kiss on me that’s so sweet, so electric, it could power Vegas for a night.
My heart’s doing backflips as she jumps back into her buggy, revs the engine, and peels out with a half-spin, leaving a trail of burnt rubber and a cheerful beep-beep from her VW’s horn.
I stand there, grinning like an idiot, replaying the day. The mud, the laughs, the Sphere, that kiss
—it’s the best day ever.
—it’s the best day ever.
Groove is in the Heart - Arlo
