Fight ensues over road romance in South America

I had been trying to sleep but the scorching sun blazing through the side window of my then-new 1988 GMC Sierra pickup made sure it was a fitful nap.

My co-driver Tim Cahill and I had spent the previous three days burning up the Pan American Highway on the first stage of our effort to knock a German prince out of the record books for the quickest drive from the bottom of South America to the top of North America.

The run from Tierra del Fuego to Santiago, the Chilean capital, had been a 48-hour nonstop affair. After showering and filling our 2,000-mile-range fuel tanks, we reviewed plans for the next stage of our trek. We figured we would make Lima, Peru, a distance equivalent of Los Angeles to Chicago in another 48 hours.

It was Day 4 and we had just begun the long haul north into the Atacama Desert, the driest place in the world. The sea of sky, sand and rock stretched along the west coast of South America between central Chile and Peru like a dry nightmare.

I drove my four-hour shift then took the passenger seat and flirted with sleep. In and out of my delirium, I sensed Tim was driving faster than usual. I opened an eye. We were flying all right. Tim had a flushed, but determined look on his face. The speedometer was sitting at 90, pretty well flat out. About 50 yards in front, a Peugeot with a red diplomatic license plate was making good time.

"What's the hurry, Tim? We have about a half-ton of fuel on board, you know." I tried to make sense of what was going on.

"It's the woman in the passenger's seat. I think she is in love with me," Tim said. He was on a mission.

He went on to explain that an hour earlier the Peugeot had passed us. The passenger, apparently "something out of Hollywood," had looked up at Tim on the way by. Three seconds of eye contact and a sultry smile was all it took. In the fervor that days of relentless South American driving had created, the encounter was all it took. Tim's driven mind was set on the premise that the lady in the Peugeot with the diplomatic plates had fallen head over heals in love with him. Sure, Tim. Good logic.

There was no reasoning with him. But when he drifted the truck beyond my comfort range on a gravelly turn, I launched into an adrenaline charged tirade about safety, driving abilities, crashes and the hopeless situation Tim was chasing across the desert.

My monologue evolved into a screaming rant that left both of us deflated while the Peugeot disappeared over the horizon and our relationship was slapped onto a test bench.

"She was probably with her husband anyway, some ambassador or a high-ranking military type." I collapsed in the passenger's seat, depressed I had lost my cool with Tim so early in our effort to take on the Americas. And I never did see Tim's new friend, although I'm sure the brunette in the diplomatic-plated Peugeot was a sight to behold.

Tim had fallen for one of the oldest gigs in the motoring game: road romance. We've all slipped into this carpool. A person of interest driving in the next lane. A discrete look, a second perhaps. Then estrangement if you happen to end up side by side in the next gridlock. Just like Chevy Chase in the movie "Vacation."

Tim was quiet, obviously taken aback by this driving zealot's assault on his love life. Perhaps he was ashamed of risking the success of our mission for the lovely Latina. Or was he planning how to get back at me for yelling at him within earshot of his speedy new love.

We never talked about the incident again over the next 19 days it took us to finesse the big Sierra one-ton pickup through some of the most rugged terrain and politics on the planet. Tim didn't fall in love again, I got my share of naps along the way and we had ample opportunity to check on road romance on the interstate highways between Brownsville, Texas, and the North Dakota-Canada border.

The drive ended high above the Arctic Circle in Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, 23 days, 22 hours and 43 minutes after it began, on the frozen shores of the Beauford Sea. Even though we had to drive another 500 miles back to Fairbanks for the celebratory drink we had promised ourselves, the clock had stopped. We had eclipsed the German prince by a month.

On the drive to Fairbanks we debriefed. We discussed the book Tim would write on the adventure and advertising plans General Motors Corp. had about using our effort as a plank in the launch platform for the all-new Sierra pickup.

We talked about a lot of things, but we never mentioned love lost and the Sowerby yell-fest of the Atacama Desert.

A couple of years later Tim finished his tome on the adventure and called it "Road Fever." It has over the years become somewhat of a cult travel book. It catches the moment, alright, especially when I read about the fantasy Tim carried up the Gringo Trail to Alaska with him.

No, it wasn't the lovely Latina. Tim would tow the line, be a dedicated partner and defend the truck with integrity. But when we arrived in Prudhoe Bay, once we had the record in hand, he was going to bop me one right on the end of the nose.

WHAM -- here's for that afternoon in the Atacama Desert.

Garry Sowerby, author of "Sowerby's Road: Adventures of a Driven Mind," is a four-time Guinness World Record holder for long-distance driving. His exploits, good, bad and just plain harrowing, are the subject of World Odyssey, produced in conjunction with Wheelbase Communications. Wheelbase is a worldwide provider of automotive news and features stories.