My combo-plate tour of the Southwest continues with a visit to El Minuto in Tucson. I first ate there back in 1980, and whenever I’m back in town it’s the first place I stop.

The food isn’t like the fiery grub you get in northern New Mexico — it’s more like the Tex-Mex that hooked me as a kid in San Antone. The mild red sauce has a tomato tang, I’m pretty sure the tacos have some potato in ’em (I always gobble them down too quickly to be sure), and the beans are refried instead of whole. Good stuff all around, and smack dab between La Choza and El Sombrero in terms of price point.

The drive west was uneventful. Giant vehicles remain all the rage in this part of the nation, whether people need them or not, and Texicans with regard for neither law nor order owned the left lane from Las Cruces all the way to Tucson, roaring past the rest of us like Soviet apparatchiks passing proles in the Moscow Zil lanes. They gave no quarter, and even Californicators moved over to let them pass.

While dodging the sons of the Lone Star State I enjoyed periodic bursts of philosophy from the New Mexico Department of Transportation: “Dust storms may exist.” Ah, but then again they may not. And they didn’t.

The Suburu’s thermometer flirted with 60 but never quite closed the deal until I crossed into Arizona around 1. It’s 69 and sunny now, and doesn’t that feel good to this ghostly pale gabacho. I won’t be wearing three jerseys while riding around these parts. But I will be wearing a shitload of sunscreen.

• Late update: After getting settled at the hotel I thought about driving back into Tucson proper for a pint or two at Gentle Ben’s Brewing Company, but I wasn’t in the mood to deal with the traffic, which is slightly insane. Instead I picked up a sixer of another local microbrew, the IPA from Nimbus Brewing Company. Drinkable, but not spectacular; last night’s pints at High Desert were much livelier. In other news, tomorrow morning’s update may be the last on this site for a couple of days — I don’t believe I’ll have wi-fi again until Tombstone. So keep an eye on maddogmedia.wordpress.com for the latest in vertical gain and pain management.

• Later update: How could I forget? Today is not only Herself’s birthday, it’s Jack Kerouac’s birthday. An auspicious day to be on the road. Herself was treated to a pleasant dinner at The Blue Star by our mutual friends Steve and Doris, but Jack got jack shit ’cause he’s all like dead and stuff.

Yuk. Santa Fe was a gray, soggy, gloomy mess when I arose this morning for the traditional breakfast burrito at Tia Sophia. I thought briefly about having a soak at Ten Thousand Waves, but the frosty clouds shrouding the mountains sent me packing. I’m on the road to escape that sort of thing, not wallow in it.

Stopped in sunny Socorro for the combo plate at Frank and Lupe’s El Sombrero, a place I haven’t visited in a few years. It was everything La Choza was not — prompt, attentive service, delicious food and reasonably priced at $9.57, or less than half what I paid for an uninteresting dinner in Santa Fe. The chiles they use in the green are obtained locally, too.

Now I’m in Las Cruces, planning a visit to the High Desert Brewing Company, whose motto is, “None of our beers suck.” Not strictly grammatical, but true as of my last visit, circa 2007 or thereabouts.

I’m extrapolating, of course. Not even I can drink every beer in a brewpub. But don’t think I haven’t tried.