Andrew grinned, gunned the engine - which started with a sound that could best be described as "self-incredulous" - and we were off.
The road actually gained a bit of altitude for the next few miles, quite the rare feat in western Kansas, so that by the time the rain started sputtering against the windshield we were looking down on fields to our left, long grass whipping in the wind. The rain was hesitant at first, but I'd spent enough time in the plains in the summer to know what was coming - a polite drizzle here, a brief shower there, and then suddenly everything would cut loose at once.
Andrew switched the headlights on.
The first bolt of lightning we saw strike the ground actually hit something. It's hard for me to judge distances when driving somewhere as flat as Kansas, but I'd guess it was 20 miles or so ahead and a bit to our left/south. There was a flash from the sky, and then a thin finger of lightning brushed the ground, and then something - probably a transformer - exploded.
"Huh." At this distance it was more a curiousity than anything else. Ten miles closer and it would have been a spectacle. Ten miles closer still and it might have been life-threatening. Interesting what physical distance will do to your perceptions.
That bolt seemed to set off a frenzy as a few more knifed out of the clouds moments later, a bit further to the north. But still the rain stayed at a sprinkle. It wouldn't have even been heavy enough to be noticeable except for the wind that was blowing it around.
We kept driving. To someone used to Appalachian topography, Kansas storms can be intimidating. What might actually be your standard thunderstorm can look a hell of a lot more threatening when you can see the entirety of the storm cell laid out before you on the prarieland. I hope that was the case here, that things weren't as bad as they looked.
We were headed almost due west at this point, according to the compass dangling from the rearview. The storm would have been mostly coming straight at us, but it was also moving a bit from south to north, which made me think that if we could get past it before the really nasty-looking part crossed the highway we might get off easy.
We covered about five more miles, and by then the edge of the storm was above us instead of in front of us, the wind was howling audibly against the truck's windshield, and still the rain held off. Which was making me more and more nervous.
"There's something weird going about this, man," Andrew said. I nodded, but didn't say anything. We both had a flair for melodrama, being able to take, say, a drive across country and pretend it was some grand adventure. So it wasn't hard to think that maybe Andrew was sort of hoping for a titanic storm to engulf us. I can't say I was entirely adverse to the possibility myself. There is something about being put in a life-threatening situation that instantly gives you purpose. this is attractive to me in general, but on a trip to get away from what I saw at the time as the purposelessness of my day to day routine, it was especially exciting. Trying not to die was just straight-up more interesting than being comfortable.
For better or worse, nature suddenly seemed ready to oblige us in this regard.
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