In Christie Walker Bos’ new novel, Patsy Hits the Road, 75-year-old Patsy tries to outrun grief and find new joy when she hits the road with her best friend, Rosa, in a cherry red Mustang convertible.
While Patsy’s trip is anchored in her struggle with grief that shifts and changes like the landscape as she follows Route 66—through the California desert, across Arizona, north to Santa Fe and beyond—it is a story of resilience. On the adventure, they sprinkle her husband Carl’s ashes around the Southwest, as Patsy comes to terms with life without her husband—and ultimately finds herself.
The novel is loosely based on Christie Walker Bos’ road trip with her best friend, Linda, a year after Linda lost her husband to cancer. While the characters are fictional, the sights, sounds, locations and even the menus from the restaurants along the way are real, including the famous Roadkill Café in Seligman, Ariz., where their tagline says it all, “You kill it. We grill it.”
The is Christie Walker Bos’ seventh novel. Last year, she published a book of short stories titled Seasonal Tales, and she writes a bi-monthly satirical column on Substack called Humor for Humorless Times. Walker Bos divides her time evenly between Big Bear Lake and Sky Valley. Learn more at ChristieWalkerBos.com.
Here’s an excerpt from Patsy Hits the Road.
Chapter One: Big Bear to Route 66
Seventy-five years old, going seventy mph, Patsy wasn’t supposed to die today—at least that’s what the crazy palm reader had told her. It was day nine of her 11-day road trip, the sun was shining, the music was blaring, and a white pick-up truck on a collision course with her cherry red Mustang suggested the palm reader was wrong, dead wrong.
What was that idiot thinking, trying to pass that many cars at one time?
Pressing firmly on the brake pedal, Patsy searched for an escape route as her heart raced faster than her car. The pickup truck driver found no gaps between the solid line of cars moving in the opposite direction, leaving Patsy only one option … the soft shoulder.
Too fast, she thought, as she eased her tires over the white line to the edge of the pavement.
Her angel of death, in the form of the pickup, burned rubber, leaving a trail of white smoke in its wake. Ten car lengths, eight car lengths … at five car lengths, Patsy could see the terrified look on the young man’s face, mirroring her own. White-knuckling the steering wheel, Patsy fought to keep the tires straight as she eased off the road. She knew if the tires turned and dug into the sandy desert soil, the car might flip.
If ever there was a moment for Patsy’s life to flash before her eyes, this would be it, but it wasn’t. She had no thoughts of her dead husband Carl, gone just over a year, nor a touching montage featuring her three children and three grandchildren at various moments throughout their lives. Instead, the singular memory popping into her head as she faced the possibility of dying in a head-on collision was of that damn palm reader.
“Ninety-six … fat chance,” she swore, angrier at the bogus prediction of how long she’d live than her impending demise. “This is it, Carl,” she exhaled, believing those might be the last words she ever spoke.
As the right-side tires hit the dirt, two things happened simultaneously: Patsy’s convertible sent rocks, dirt, and small plants flying into the air, and the white pickup blew past her, tearing off the Mustang’s side mirror with a nails-on-a-chalkboard screech of ripping metal.
Her car came to a shuddering stop in a cloud of fine brown dust, leaning to the right on the sloping shoulder. The Black Eyed Peas sang on, insisting it was still going to be a good night, unaware Patsy had cheated a gruesome death by a few inches.
What do they know?
Her shaky hand turned off the ignition and switched off the radio.
Adrenaline coursed through her veins like electricity, and her heart felt like it would burst out of her chest. Resting her forehead on the top of the steering wheel, Patsy took a deep, shuddering breath. The dust settled, covering the convertible’s white leather seats with a fine layer of powder, bringing on a coughing fit, which had her bracing against the seat to ensure she didn’t throw her back out.
Finally lifting her head, she expected to find buzzards circling overhead. Grasping the chain around her neck, Patsy extracted twin gold wedding rings from under her blouse. Scratched and dull from fifty years of wear, the plain bands dangled from a silver chain, glimmering in the dusty light. She cradled the rings as if they were baby birds and reverently kissed the metal circles before tucking them back safely between her breasts.
“Maybe this road trip wasn’t such a great idea after all,” she sighed, leaning back into the seat, tilting her face up to the sky.
This road trip is the best idea ever.
It was day one of her 11-day experiment to determine if life on the road was the life for her. She’d gone all in on her dream of selling her home and most of her possessions.
No turning back now.
With her best friend Rosa at her side, she hoped this would be the start of an epic adventure, a fresh start, a new life.
An hour ago, she’d picked up Rosa from her home in the mountain town of Big Bear Lake, and they’d just finished making their way down the winding road to the desert floor. Patsy reveled in how the Mustang convertible hugged the road on every curve, making her feel like Indianapolis 500 race car driver Danica Patrick. This new version of the classic Mustang couldn’t hold a candle to the one she’d fallen in love with as a young girl, but it would have to do, she thought, as she rounded another curve.
As the car raced down a steep straightaway through the desert landscape, Patsy gripped the wheel tighter as a gust of dry, gritty wind tried to push her off the road. Rosa stretched her arms over her head, letting the wind above the windshield whistle between her fingers.
“I can’t believe we’re finally doing this,” Rosa said, her soft voice blowing away with the wind.
“We’re doing it. It’s taken a lifetime to make this dream come true, but nothing is stopping us now.” Patsy took her right hand off the wheel for a high five, which Rosa slapped with enthusiasm. Patsy remembered the first time she’d seen a 1965 Mustang convertible pull into the school parking lot. It had been love at first sight. Rosa and Patsy had planned a cross-country road trip for the summer after their senior year in high school, mapping out the route from Santa Monica to Chicago along Route 66. Then, as with many dreams, life got in the way: college, marriage, and kids. The next summer became the next summer, and then the next year, until almost 60 years later, they were finally on their way.
Patsy slowed the car to cruise through what passed for civilization on the outskirts of Barstow, Calif., before merging onto Interstate 15, then Interstate 40.
The Mother Road. I’m finally here.
Route 66. The black ribbon of asphalt headed east, then swung north, cutting across eight states, from Santa Monica, Calif., to Chicago. Someday she’d drive all 2,448 miles until she could dip her toes into chilly Lake Michigan. But not yet. First, this test drive through the scenic Southwest, over to Denver, onto Utah, then ending in Las Vegas … a small taste of what life on the open road could be. She’d waited so long for this adventure; now it was her time.
This is the beginning of the road and my new life. What a difference a year has made.
During the last year of Carl’s three-year decline, Patsy rarely left the house except to drive Carl to his doctor’s appointments. By the time she finished Carl’s morning routine of breakfast, pills, and eventually diaper changes, she’d be too tired to take care of herself. Most days, she wore the same clothes—a pair of baggy sweatpants and one of Carl’s college sweatshirts. Even with no makeup and her hair pulled into a messy bun, Carl would look up from his bed, his eyes still bright with love and declare, “My beautiful angel.”
If you could only see me now, Carl. All decked out in red, following the road. On a quest for new horizons, new possibilities.
Patsy sounded tired and beat down, even though she insisted she was still OK. But Rosa knew no one was ever fine while watching their husband slowly die. I wouldn’t have been OK, Rosa thought, marveling at the smile on Patsy’s face, as she drove through the desert.
The twin tails of Patsy’s scarf flew away behind her, as her gray hair—braided into two long plaits—bounced at her back, her red scarf keeping the tiny whisps of hair from tickling her face. Her bold, oversized sunglasses, her lipstick, and her overalls were all cherry red to match the Mustang. A glance in the rearview mirror confirmed what she felt … she looked like a movie star … an aging movie star, but a movie star, nonetheless. Patsy hadn’t felt this good in months.
Patsy glanced over at Rosa, who looked pretty stylish herself. She, too, wore lipstick—a burnt orange—matching the burnt orange long-sleeved silk blouse fluttering in the breeze. Rosa’s gold aviator glasses and matching hoop earrings glistened in the sunlight against her honey-brown complexion. The small pink scarf tied around Rosa’s short gray ponytail flapped like a fancy bird tail in the wind.
A couple of classy broads out for an adventure.
With her arm out the window, Rosa played with the wind. Her hand rose and fell in graceful swoops, reminding her of ravens playing in updrafts. As the dry landscape flew by, Rosa’s thoughts drifted back up the mountain to her husband, Bernard. He had been worried about two women “of a certain age” traveling alone.
“What if the car breaks down? What if you’re robbed or kidnapped?”
Rosa had laughed at that one. Who would want to kidnap a couple of old ladies? Maybe if they were in their 20s, 30s or even 40s, they’d be in danger of being accosted or, at the very least, flirted with at every gas station and truck stop along the way. Some people, men people to be exact, might say two women, on the road in a fast, sexy red car, were “just asking for it,” but Rosa knew they’d be safe. When you’re in your mid-70s, you’re practically invisible.
What Rosa worried about was her dear friend Patsy. During the last three years of Carl’s life, Rosa had done her best to keep in touch with her friend by phone, text, email, and personal visits anytime she was down the mountain. If Rosa and Bernard had still lived next door to Patsy and Carl, she could have offered more support. Living 90 minutes away, with the first hour being a drive down a twisty, often snow-covered, mountain road, Rosa hadn’t been able to help her friend as much as she would have liked. Phone calls and texts were no substitute for showing up. Her logical mind said it couldn’t be helped. Her emotional self felt guilty for not being there.
When she asked how they were doing, Patsy would always say they were fine. “Just taking it one day at a time. Nothing anyone can do,” she’d say. The last six months had been the worst. Patsy sounded tired and beat down, even though she insisted she was still OK. But Rosa knew no one was ever fine while watching their husband slowly die.
I wouldn’t have been OK, Rosa thought, marveling at the smile on Patsy’s face, as she drove through the desert.
She does seem happy, now.
A sign for the Marine Corps Logistics Base had Patsy saluting before they drove past various derelict buildings and living-on-the-edge homesteads dotting the bleached sand.
Suddenly, Rosa sat taller. “We’re going to exit at the next stop in Newberry Springs. There is something there called the Volcano House we must see.”
Before the trip, Patsy had asked Rosa to be the navigator, tour guide, and trip DJ. With maps, tourist information, and music all accessible from her phone, they wouldn’t need a TripTik or a box of cassette tapes. While planning the trip over a cup of coffee, Patsy agreed to stop wherever Rosa wanted. Patsy just wanted to drive. Drive away from sadness and pain. Drive, drive, and then drive some more until she ran out of pavement or tears, whatever came first. The open road would be her tonic and the Mustang her vessel, she’d explained, wiping her eyes and forcing the frown away. It had been the first time since Carl’s death that Patsy had let her guard down.
Patsy’s first line of defense had always been to declare she was fine. She said it with confidence, even when she had doubts. “Never let them see you cry,” her father used to say. “They’ll call you a sissy or a girl,” he’d explain, which was confusing since she was a girl. “What’s so bad about being called a girl?” she had wondered.
As the cancer slowly devoured her husband from the inside out, she’d wield the phrase “I’m fine” like a shield to ward off too much sympathy and attention. Most of the time, it was true until it wasn’t.
Over coffee, Patsy opened up to Rosa, explaining how she viewed her life as a series of segments, divided by responsibilities. She’d been defined by her relationship to others her entire life. For the first 25 years, she’d been her parents’ daughter. The next 25, her husband’s wife, her children’s mother. The next 25, her grandchildren’s Gram, and finally her husband’s caregiver.
“Who am I without these relationships?” Patsy had asked. “I really don’t know, but I’ve decided it’s about time I found out.”
Copyright 2026, Christie Walker Bos.