Well, I had fully intended to do this yesterday, but adulting got in the way, as it is wont to do from time-to-time. And in the true spirit of the subtitle to this blog “where I write things about stuff” I’m going to hit to all fields today. Well from left-center to right-center, at least.
Since I’ve got my hyphen quota out-of-the-way…
Wait, one quick side note here. I love adjectives. And I love the storytelling aspect of writing. Sometimes, when I come across a particularly beautiful piece of the art, I feel compelled to share it and I want to put this in here. Background on it is this; William Nack was a sportswriter for Sports Illustrated for 23 years, covering, among other things, the career of Secretariat. He passed away last week at the age of 77 after a fight with cancer. For the uninitiated, Secretariat was (imho) the greatest athlete of all time. As I read some of Mr. Nack’s stories, this line in his tribute to an amazing horse stood out to me.
“Oh, I knew all the stories, knew them well, had crushed and rolled them in my hand until their quaint musk lay in the saddle of my palm.”
It’s one of those lines that makes me want to write forever, the image it projects in my mind’s eye. The article itself is a long read, but it’s stunning in it’s beauty, an homage to a greatness seldom seen and I highly recommend making the time to read it.
To the trip.
I left Memphis Sunday morning, heading back to central North Carolina. I’d gone there for a concert and a little touristing, more about both later. The impetus for this post was the trip from Hell. Not really, but Sunday was one long ass day behind the windshield, let me tell you. No, really, that’s why I’m doing this.
I got on the road about 8:00 AM central time and according to the GPS it was going to be about a ten-hour drive. That’s about what it took me to get there on Thursday, so I had no reason to doubt it. I knew there was a storm out ahead of me, but I was hopeful I could stay behind it.
Ha!
The first thing that jumped out at me (not literally) was the number of highway patrol cars out on the interstate, running radar. And reaping the benefits of their actions. I’m not sure why, other than the easy pickings due to the quantity of drivers with a heavy right foot. I’m sure the Tennessee state coffers were enriched significantly that day. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they had a quota to meet too. But, according to my friends with stars on their chests, ticket quotas (wink, wink, nudge, nudge, know what I mean?) don’t exist…
I saw not less than eight officers in the first hundred miles moving east from Memphis. I need to note here that none of them carried my name in their ticket book, so, that’s a win. And, despite the need to monitor their presence, I was making good time. Outstanding time, in fact. I felt like I may have been able to shave at least a half hour off my travel time.
Until I caught the aforementioned weather. About half way through Tennessee. And can I just say that Tennessee is one wide damn state. I mean, really. Roughly 450 miles from Memphis to the North Carolina border on I-40 in case you were wondering. As you might imagine (go ahead, imagine away) this length of trip, sharing the roadway with throngs of others, each with their own places to go (and a variety of urgencies to get there) may elicit an occassional bad word from yours truly. By my count, a rough guess, but it’s still mine, I used my favorite twelve letter word (rhymes with “brother trucker”) a minimum of 27 times. This may surprise you, but I’m quite certain that if you ask the Oldest One or the Boy Child, they will confirm that is a reasonable estimate. When they were much younger we would have to drive through downtown St. Charles fairly often and they learned some creative and colorful language earlier than they probably should have thanks to my reaction to the other drivers there.
It was somewhere east of Nashville, maybe an hour or so east, where I caught up with the rain. An inconvenience perhaps, but not that big of a deal. I had gained considerable time, so I really wasn’t all that bothered. Until I got closer to Knoxville and hit a traffic jam. About ten miles worth of a traffic jam. That took me over an hour to get through. So much for early arrival. I thought I’d seen a sign as I approached the backup, something about a wreck ahead, but if that was the case it had long since been cleared up by the time I got through it. Things flowed well for about an hour when, approaching the border, Tennessee traffic gave me one last body cavity search and for no apparent reason I hit another traffic jam in excess of thirty minutes. Into North Carolina the rain picked up in frequency and intensity. I made it into Asheville for fuel and coffee and figured I’d be home in three hours or so.
Again, Ha!
Figuring 8:30 for my eta home, an eleven hour plus trip was not ideal, especially the way it started out, but I was ok with it. The volume of traffic had lightened considerably and the rain had pretty much stopped so things weren’t too bad. Until I got near my exit. Brief explanation, there are approximately 47 exits labeled route 64 on this stretch of I-40. Ok, that’s not exactly accurate, but there are three plus one exit marked for the town of Mocksville, which is the first town I pass through on the way from I-40 to my home. I, of course, chose the wrong one. The best part of that choice was that I didn’t realize how route 64 curves. When I choose the correct exit, I turn right to head home. As I came up the exit ramp I realized I should have gone five more miles to the next exit. But I had seen a sign advising another (#*@#*%) traffic jam and thought I’d stay on 64.
I turned right.
I should’ve turned left.
I was almost eight miles down the road when I saw I was heading west. Pro tip, my home was east of me. I turned around headed back to the interstate. With callous disregard for a potential traffic jam I drove east on I-40 and made it to the correct exit. Not a brake light in sight btw. Insert eye roll emoji >here<. Coming in to Mocksville I came up behind someone with an aversion to the speed limit. And not in a good way. What do you call someone who consistently drives 10-15 mph below the speed limit? I call it the car in front of me.
I finally pulled in the driveway a couple of minutes after 9:00 PM.
This has caused me to rethink my trip home next weekend. Not making it, I’ll still be in Illinois for an extended stay, but rather this; it’s a 14 hour drive under good circumstances. I’m chopping that sucker into more manageable bites.
I don’t think my vocabulary is ready for another all day road trip.
Peace