Talking Story with Arlo: vw dune buggy for sale

Talking Story with Arlo

Dune Buggy Hitchin a Ride

By Arlo Agogo

Hey there, fellow wanderers and armchair adventurers—grab a cup of something strong (or weak, no judgments here at 70), because I'm about to spin you a yarn that's equal parts road dust, diesel purr, and pure, unadulterated freedom.

Picture this: me, Arlo, freshly minted 70-year-old beatnik, firing up the ol' 40-foot Fleetwood Providence RV like I am 21 all over again. Free to Roam, my choices.

Dune Buggy hitched.

Tires? Checked and shiny.

Engine? Tuned so sweet it hums like a contented cat.

Gas tank? Full to the brim, baby.

Everything works—miracles do happen—and I'm itching to hit the blacktop harder than a VW bus at a Grateful Dead show.

Towed behind me, like a loyal sidekick who's seen more deserts than most humans have seen sunrises, rides my 1968 VW dune buggy. Her name is "Daisy". Motor rebuilt, fresh service, tires that grip sand like a hippie grips a cause.

This little fiberglass beast is ready to tear up the plains around Lake Powell, leaving rooster tails of joy in its wake.

The destination?

Some glorious Lake Powell campground—think Wahweap or Bullfrog or Antelope Point, where the red rock meets the blue water and the vibes are eternally chill. It's about 400 miles from my current location Fort Mohave, Arizona, give or take a scenic detour or two.

Straight shot? Roughly 10 hours. But who does straight shots anymore? Not this cat. I'm chopping it into three glorious, meandering days. Moseying, baby. No rush, no schedule, just the open road and the sweet freedom of not giving a single hoot where I end up tonight.

Why the slow roll?

Because at 70, I've earned the right to wander without apology. Life's not a sprint to the grave; it's a leisurely stroll with frequent Starbucks pit stops for caffeine and accidental conversations with strangers who still believe in eye contact.

My old crew? Bless 'em, they're still great friends, but most have claimed permanent residency on their own worlds. Phone calls these days are short, sweet, and to the point: "You alive?" "Yup." "Good enough." That's fine by me. I get it. We're all just riding out the innings in our own way.

Me? I've traded the couch for a diesel pusher palace on wheels. It's got everything: comfy bed, shower that actually works, fridge full of good food, and that gentle rumble that says,

North in summer, south in winter—keep the temp at 72.

Wandering isn't aimless; it's purposeful purposelessness.

No one’s gonna come looking for me if I miss dinner. (Though the phone still rings from those ride-or-die pals checking in—love ya for it.)

The real magic kicks in when I link up with my internet tribe: the vintage Volkswagen crew. We're talking dune buggies, old buses, Things, anything air-cooled and over 55 years young. These folks get it.

We met online in some dusty forum years ago, swapping rebuild tips and bad jokes, and now we're converging on Lake Powell like a rolling museum of cool.

Picture it: a circle of chrome and fiberglass under the stars, stories flowing faster than the Colorado River used to. Someone's got a guitar, someone's got a cold brew, and everyone's got that same grin that says,

"Man, we're still doing this."Comedy in the chaos?

Oh yeah. Towing a dune buggy with a 40-footer is like hitching a skateboard to a freight train—hilarious physics at every stop sign. The buggy bounces like it's auditioning for a cartoon, and every time I hit a bump, I imagine it waving hello to the rearview mirror.

Gas mileage? Let's just say the Providence drinks diesel like a beatnik drinks poetry—deep and slow. But who cares? The joy is in the journey, not the MPG.

And here's the exaggerated truth: at 70, life's not winding down—it's upgrading to premium wanderlust. No more chasing deadlines or impressing bosses. Just me, the road, and a buggy that still turns heads like it's 1968.

Friends are living their own lives in their own way. Me? I'm out here swapping tales with VW weirdos, and proving that "old man" is just code for "experienced" adventurer with zero f's left to give.

Slow, silly, and supremely content.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo

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Talking Story with Arlo

Dune Buggy Time Warp:

By Arlo Agogo

When 3 Billion Groovatrons Invaded 1974 and Turned the Hollywood Palladium into a Glitter-Soaked Madhouse.

If you remember from my previous post (and if you don't, go dig it up—it's legendary), I once met the Groovatrons in the desert late at night.

These tiny, neutrino-sized souls without meat suits were stranded because their spaceship's batteries had croaked harder than a bad karaoke night.

Heaven gets boring after a few eternities of harp solos, so these cosmic party animals hail from planet Funkadelia, where the sole mission is transversing universes to spread pure, unfiltered joy.

They're basically joy ninjas—minus the black outfits and plus infinite glitter. I hooked up my emergency battery box charger (the one I keep in my dune buggy for just such interdimensional emergencies), and while the batteries juiced up, we blasted the Grateful Dead across the dunes.

Picture me, a dune buggy named Daisy, and a swarm of invisible-but-vibrating Groovatrons headbanging to "Truckin'" like it was the national anthem of Funkadelia.

We tore across the sand, laughing hysterically, sand in our... well, their non-corporeal everything. When the ship was good to go, they gifted me quantum-entangled hubcaps that let Daisy hit 900 mph without so much as a wobble.

Then they zipped off, promising to use me as their Earth connection for future joy missions. Little did I know what "future" meant. Fast-forward to last Friday night. My phone buzzes at 2 a.m. It's not a text—it's a full holographic disco ball projecting from my IPhone scren

"Arlo?! Disco emergency! 1974 Hollywood Palladium. Dance contest at midnight. We're coming 3 BILLION strong. Be ready!" Click. Gone. I stare at the ceiling, glitter already sparkling in my brain.

Saturday morning, 5 a.m. I stumble out in my ancient disco outfit—silver polyester jumpsuit with bell-bottoms so wide they could double as parachutes, platform shoes that add six inches of pure danger, and a shirt open to the navel because that's how we rolled (or so I tell myself).

Daisy sits there gleaming under the desert sun. And on the dashboard? A glittering, writhing mass of 3 billion Groovatrons. They're tiny glowing orbs, flashing iPhone screens (yes, they have iPhones—don't ask; time travel tech is weird), showing selfies of their "bell bottom plants" (whatever that means—probably Funkadelian houseplants with disco balls for leaves) and outrageous disco 'fros' made of pure light.

They're screaming in tiny voices: "Boogie! Boogie! BOOGIE!" I jump in, seat belts on, and yell,

"Hold on, tiny ravers!"

I throw Daisy into reverse, mash the Time Discombobulator button (a big red one they installed—looks like it was stolen from a '70s arcade game), and floor it.

We don't just go backward in time—we go backward in STYLE. The desert blurs into a psychedelic tunnel of spinning disco lights, backward lyrics from "Stayin' Alive" echoing ("evilA gniyatS!"), sand turning into glitter storms.

We're doing 900 mph in reverse, tires screaming like they're auditioning for a horror movie, while the Groovatrons party on the dash like it's spring break on a neutron star.BOOM.

We spin 360s like a breakdancer on steroids and screech into the Hollywood Palladium parking lot at exactly midnight, 1974.

The place is PACKED. Neon signs screaming "Disco Fever Night!" Eric Estrada from CHiPs is MC-ing in a white suit tighter than a drum skin,

Donna Summer is belting "Love to Love You Baby" like the world depends on it, the Bee Gees are harmonizing so perfectly it hurts,

Luther Vandross is warming up his velvet voice, and—wait for it—the Rolling Stones are lurking in the shadows like they crashed the wrong party.

Mick and Keith eyeing the dance floor, probably thinking, "We could do this disco thing... or not."Inside, it's pandemonium.

The Groovatrons explode off the dashboard like confetti from a cannon. 3 billion invisible joy particles zipping through the crowd, jacking up everyone's happiness to dangerous levels.

People start levitating an inch off the floor without noticing. Drinks multiply.

Bell-bottoms flare wider.

One guy’s afro grows three feet in real time. Cocktails flow like rivers—Harvey Wallbangers, Tequila Sunrises, whatever was trendy.

The Groovatrons are everywhere: photobombing selfies (they invented the flash mob before cell phones), making the mirror ball spin twice as fast, and turning the bass so thumpy it rearranges your internal organs into the hustle formation.

Then the dance contest hits. Eric Estrada yells, "Show us what you got!" John Travolta struts out in full Saturday Night Fever mode—pointy finger, hip thrusts, the works. Crowd loses it.

I have zero planned moves. So I improvise the Dune Buggy Shuffle: pretend I'm driving Daisy at 900 mph, hopping like the buggy's hitting every desert bump, waving imaginary ropes like lassoing joy itself, arms flailing like I'm steering through a sandstorm of glitter.

I spin, I dip, I accidentally elbow a waiter carrying 12 flaming cocktails. Chaos. Glorious chaos.The Groovatrons go full cuckoo. They swarm the stage, making Donna Summer's mic feedback into psychedelic echoes, turning the Bee Gees' falsettos into dolphin calls, and somehow convincing ....

Mick Jagger to grab the mic.

Next thing you know, the Rolling Stones are doing "Satisfaction" DISCO STYLE—funky bassline, four-on-the-floor beat, Mick strutting like he's on hot coals made of sequins. Keith looks confused but shreds a disco riff on guitar anyway.

The whole Palladium erupts: "I can't get no... SATISFACTION!" but everyone sings it like it's the happiest complaint ever.

I'm in the finals somehow.

My Dune Buggy Shuffle versus Travolta's robot precision. The judges (half-drunk celebrities) are torn. Groovatrons cheat shamelessly—tiny orbs buzzing around my feet, making me look like I'm floating.

I don't win (Travolta takes it, obviously), but who cares?

The place is one giant, sweaty, joyful mess. People hugging strangers, glitter raining from the ceiling like snow in hell, and the Groovatrons high-fiving everyone with invisible neutrino hands.

Time to bounce.

We pile back into Daisy—3 billion Groovatrons now covered in human glitter and looking smug. Instead of reverse, I slam it into forward. Quantum hubcaps engage.

We slide sideways out of 1974 like a bad parallel-parking attempt, tires screeching across decades.

Desert blurs again, time rewinds forward, and BAM—sideways drift into my driveway at dawn. The Groovatrons erupt in tiny cheers, flashing a million iPhone pics (my driveway now looks like a supernova on their feeds).

Then—whoosh—a streak of light zips across the sky back to Funkadelia.

I stumble inside, collapse on the couch, and wake up the a few hours later covered head-to-toe in glitter. My couch looks like a disco ball exploded.

I laugh so hard I snort glitter.

Reminds me of college... but way better.

Moral? When 3 billion soul-sized party animals call for a time-travel disco raid, you say yes. Always say yes.

Life's too short—not to boogie across universes in a dune buggy.