Road Trip!

 

A few weeks ago, we drove 750 miles up to Washington, DC for an appointment, and of course, 750 back. Kind of a last-minute thing so we took the car instead of flying. My aversion to flying is exceeded only by my dislike of driving, which, other than when we have a house fire or a bomb threat, is trumped by my strong reluctance to leaving the house at all.

But I wanted to support my wife in her decision to go and knew that ultimately it was not an actual choice one way or the other anyway. If I ever expected to have a harmonious home life again, I had to be like one of our dogs and get in the damn car when told to do so.

They’re a lot happier about it than I am.

Her car is a tiny Honda Fit, like a skateboard with doors and a roof. Siting about ankle level, I could examine the wheels of every other vehicle as we passed, able to judge tire wear and wobble.

On the road, Carla is very stable and predictable, she always drives 25 over any posted speed limit. Then we drift, lane to lane, as she throws her head backward to eat from a large bag of cashews while turned sideways to reach into the back seat, shuffling through junk with her right hand, trying to grab something she doesn’t need right now, if ever.

I soon found that staying braced for a crash, hours at a time, is exhausting.

And the roadkill along the way is depressing. Just on the way up, I counted 6 dead deer, 3 dogs, 1 red fox, and five unidentifiable masses of rotted meat, hair and bone. I wondered if at one time one of those piles may have been passengers in a car going too fast while the driver was digging around in the back seat for a bag of black licorice, somewhere back there. Those piles of death could have been the Shoney’s Big Boy, or anything else that once had life. Maybe even Jimmy Hoffa, a few were about the right size.

I railed on about how insensitive and nasty it was for each state to fail to remove the bodies. “Probably not enough road crew people due to Covid.” Carla pointed out. She’s probably right, but I wanted to be irate and vow that things would be different if I were in charge.

Same thing on the drive back. Lots of roadkill.

Then we got behind this guy who apparently decided to be a responsible citizen and clean up at least one of the bodies by himself. Piled unceremoniously in the flatbed, right next to the grill.

Road-kill venison! Yum! A South Carolina specialty, served at Stuckey’s for many years as “Quirky Jerky”.

With that in mind, I insisted we stop somewhere for a pecan log, and decompress.

Next time. we fly.