Three Days on the Road
My car is repacked. We emptied it for the trip to New Orleans and left the boxes in our friend’s garage in Orlando. The ruptured brake line had been repaired but then we discovered the master cylinder needed replacing. Our man Clenard said he could get to it on Sunday so we hung around with our friends for one more weekend, cooking amazing dinners and relaxing. The guys got in a round of golf.
There really isn’t much you can do about life’s mishaps. It’s called the middle class squeeze. Here we are embarking on a new way of life. We’ve reduced our monthly nut once again. We will be living at the inn in a five bedroom house attached to the main house. There will be no rent to pay, no utilities, no drive to work. All that’s left are automobiles, health insurance, one more year of our younger daughter’s college tuition, food, and other miscellaneous items, but before we can even get there we’re hit with a five hundred fifty dollar auto repair bill. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.
The vehicles are old. My car will join the 200,000 Mile Club somewhere north of the Mason/Dixon line. The shocks are gone. The car bounces and squeaks as it carries a heavy load. Let’s hope she makes it. I never gave this car a name and she’s so reliable I wish I had, but it seems beside the point now.
My very first car named himself. It was a blue Toyota Corolla I bought from McGee Pontiac Toyota in Hanover, MA, a client of the public accountant I worked for in Boston who gave me a good price on last year’s model. For some reason I can no longer remember, I registered the car in Rhode Island using my parents’ address. My license plate was ED 937. Ed McGee. Ed was one of those guys you always call by their full name. We have several friends like that. Dave Stott. Jim Green. Mike Mills.
Ed traveled cross country twice. My current car, the Hyundai, has traveled up and down the East coast, spent a lot of time at lacrosse fields in the Mid-Atlantic, and commuted forty-five minutes both ways from Exeter, NH to Ipswich, MA five days a week, fifty weeks a year, for four years. The miles added up quickly but she has required little maintenance other than oil changes which were not as often as they should have been because how do you find the time to change the oil when you’re always driving the car? But she never complained, she just got the job done. Let’s hope she and I make this last trip without incident.
I packed a bag of music for each vehicle. Day One I am listening to Van Morrison, Neil Young, Dire Straits, David Gray, and Tori Amos. I play the music really loud and sing along so as not to hear anything worrisome from the car. If I can’t hear it, it’s not happening is my philosophy. I know my reasoning is faulty but to use an expression my husband despises, it is what it is.
Our goal is to drive roughly four hundred fifty miles a day. Today’s destination is Florence, South Carolina. On a long trip like this I become one with the road, the passing scenery, the names of towns, and the geography. So many of the names I see recall scenes from American history. (In case you’ve forgotten, I am the daughter of a U.S. History teacher.) I love the names of the bodies of water I cross-the Rappahonock, the Allegheny, the Chesapeake, the Susquehana.
My husband and I are not caravanning. He keeps an average speed of sixty-five miles per hour because of the weight of his load. I’m traveling between sixty-five and seventy. I report my border crossings. He calls in for a gas station pit stop up ahead or a lunch break. We speak in terms of corridors (the I-4 and the Northeast), beltways, route numbers, and mile markers.
We stay pretty close until the end of the day when I get well out ahead of him and beat him to hotel number one-a Fairfield Inn in Florence right off Route 95. Of course I think of Sam Ryder, the protagonist in my latest novel Life Is All This, writing his novels and blogs at the Fairfield Inn in South Florida. I decide Sam Ryder would be another one of those guys whose friends would refer to him by his full name.
We have dinner at the restaurant next door that looks like a chain but is actually a local place called Percy & Willy’s where we have the best French Dip sandwich we have ever eaten.
After the free breakfast at the hotel, we’re back on the road. My music line-up for the day is the Talking Heads, Sting, J.J. Cale, Dave Matthews Band, and Natalie Merchant. A guy from Georgia with a bumper hitch towing a wheelchair with a pillow flopping off the side passes me on the left. I saw this guy yesterday. I wonder if he too stayed at the Fairfield Inn in Florence.
I pass a woman from Florida driving a truck with large lettering on her rear window. A Woman and Her Truck Are A Beautiful Thing. She is also driving solo and hauling a trailer. She looks to be in her mid-sixties. I wonder where she’s headed. There are lots of snowbirds on the road north, driving trailers towing cars with bikes attached to the rear bumper.
The medians of North Carolina are covered with wildflowers. Red poppies. Yellow black eyed Susan. Something pink I can’t identify at 70 m.p.h. I am on speaker phone with my friend from Rhode Island who shared this ride with me two years ago when I moved to Florida. We discuss Lady Bird Johnson, agreeing the Highway Beautification Project was a great First Lady kind of thing to do and shake our heads at the the thought that something like that could never get passed through Congress in this day and age of crumbling highways and falling bridges. Although I do acknowledge the road has narrowed down to one lane quite frequently on this trip, as I have crossed several bridges that are finally being repaired.
Arriving at our destination together, we pull into the Courtyard hotel in Annapolis at 6 p.m. On the road into town for dinner, we are stopped by a lineup of a dozen cops who ask us where we are from, where are we going, and have we had a drink this evening. “Yes, we had one an hour ago at our hotel.”
“Well, we’re running this DUI checkpoint all night so if you have another one, you will be taking a breathalyzer and you will be over the legal limit.” Oh, really? My husband orders ice tea with his dinner and our waiter tells us the roadblocks are really killing business. It is Cinco de Mayo and we are the only customers at Buddy’s Crabs and Ribs, seated in a large dining hall with a full buffet of raw oysters, crawfish, catfish, and seafood pasta salads. I ate here years ago when my daughter played lacrosse tournaments and college games throughout the mid-Atlantic.
My younger daughter recently asked me, “Do you remember that weird time in our lives when we were lacrosse people?” Yes, of course I do. I made potluck portions of pulled pork that I reheated in a traveling crockpot, or the Barefoot Contessa’s Shrimp and Orzo salad which blew everyone away. I always planned some sightseeing; a trip to Teddy Roosevelt’s house in Oyster Bay, N.Y., a stop at my cousin’s in Bethesda where we took the metro into D.C. and visited the monuments and museums, a visit to the Feast of San Gennaro in Little Italy, a walk through Valley Forge in Pennsylvania. Hey, we drove all the way down here, we might as well see something.
But on this trip north we’re all business. We are anxious to start our new life and get this drive in our old vehicles behind us. We get lost driving back to the hotel and miss the DUI checkpoint. Back in our room, we catch the Teddy Roosevelt episode of a Ken Burns NPR documentary.
We leave Annapolis just after sunrise. Today’s music lineup is Mumford and Sons, Allman Brothers, Miles Davis, and Enya. The day starts peacefully. A drive through the farms of the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Heavenly sunlight shines through puffy white clouds onto freshly planted fields. We chose this route because my husband wanted to avoid the beltway around D.C. But the Northeast Corridor lies ahead, always a difficult drive on the last leg of the journey home to New England.
We cross the Delaware bridge onto the New Jersey Turnpike to Route 95. The potholes are getting larger. The highways wear the battle scars of a long Northeast winter. The shocks are no longer absorbing the potholes and there are no breakdown lanes. My car bounces like a trampoline. Squeak, Squeak. I forgot to buy more Velcro to attach my EZ Pass to my windshield as we drive through the tolls that began in Maryland. Leaning forward to hold the EZ pass up to the window as I approach the toll booth for the George Washington bridge, I notice the giant pothole too late. Clunk. Groan. Oh shit.
My nameless girl creaks and wobbles a bit, complaining about why at her age am I making her drive with all these boxes on her seats and in her trunk. Where are we going and what are we doing? Haven’t I worked hard all my life? How many more miles must I travel?
I lost sight of my husband back on the Jersey turnpike while I was driving in the car lanes and he was over with the semis and RV’s but as we reach the crest of the bridge with Manhattan over my right shoulder and rain beginning to fall, we catch sight of him up ahead. Enya is singing a soothing song. I relax into the Orinoco Flow and the comfort we feel when we see my hubby just up ahead calms my jangled nerves. My nameless girl’s chrome heart still beats. She keeps driving the road ahead. The only road we know. We are headed in the right direction.