Road Trip 2005; I. Northward
Greetings, loyal readers -- and all you other leftist mouth-breathers out there who send me misspelled, hate-oozing email. B2 has returned from Road Trip 2005; In fact I bumbled and stumbled into the drive about 0100 hours today. And what a trip it was ... met new people, visited new places, and was nearly killed. Now that's a road trip.
On the road again
I hit the road in the wee hours on the 14th and must say that just as with any other of my many adventures, I was jazzed with nervous energy and excitement; I sallied forth without getting any sleep the night before. It always happens with me, this feeling of anticipation and heightened sensory stimulation. The allure of the unknown and unplanned is intoxicating and the feeling is one of life's great pleasures.
Spontaneous road trips are ... well, er, spontaneous because you never know what you'll stumble upon, who you'll meet, or which spectacularly beautiful part of America will move you and touch your soul.
Up the Reagan Turnpike I headed, past sleeping towns and passing the occasional truck driver who, like me, prefers the relatively isolated turnpike and its toll rather than the gunners and jammed mayhem of Interstate 95.
I've always thought it magical: Sailing along on an empty road, windows down and the smell of farms, growing things, and dew soothing your mind. Gretchen Wilson or another talented thrush emanating from the radio, singing to just me. No schedule and no particular place to go, just as the skies are beginning to lighten and the world is awakening around you. Magic. Perfect.
Alternating serenity with chaos
And then comes Orlando. Run, gun, jam, swerve, twitch, bitch. Then, seemingly in an instant, away from the madness -- the calm returns for a time until my trusty, familiar turnpike disgorges its travelers onto the Ribbon of Death also known as Interstate 75. Drive till you clear Ocala and Gainseville, then stop for a head call, soothe jangled nerves, and browse a flea market to stretch the kinks out.
Chat with a vendor and after her a gas station proprietor, then off again. Man, I just love meeting folks and taking the time to say howdy. And so it goes mile after enjoyable mile, take in the sights, smells, and the occasional roadside tourist trap that is so bizarre you feel compelled to stop. Before you know it the East-West corridor of Interstate 10 is left far behind, Florida says farewell, and Georgia invites you in.
For now, at least, the road again becomes less hectic. "Git Yer Boiled Peanuts," or "U Pik Peaches" the signs say, so I do. Beautiful farms, healthy critters. Derelict relics from the glory days of the automobile abandoned in fields and for which I would kill to own, refurbish, then (what am I thinking?) repair daily. Shotgun shanties along railroad tracks, picture postcard hamlets, wildlife, and the most verdant green everywhere.
From Atlanta bedlam to postcard pretty
And then comes Atlanta. Envision Orlando, pissed off and on steroids. Escape from the insanity toward northwest Georgia and its beautiful hill country, then rumble the big Dodge onward to the Tennessee line. So many place names I know so well, so familiar to me through my studies of the Civil War (for you Yankees) or War Between the States (for you Johnnies). Our nation was, in part, finally tempered here in these many now-healed forges of suffering, blood, ruin, and death.
My goodness, before you can say yeehaw my Ram truck blasts its way into Knoxville, Tennessee, home of the Volunteers and my friend Loren. Good to see Loren again. "Hey B2, let me show you my new house!" Loren says, devious glint in his eye. "And oh by the way, let's use your truck to move this seven tons of crap from here to there." B2, sleep-deprived and obviously brain dead, agrees. Loren's new home is a beauty, all 1,986,420 square miles of it. You can fit my entire rat-infested, bug-infested Little Martin hovel into its laundry room.
Northern sprint to the lakes
Three hours of sleep, then off for another 12-hour road jaunt, this time with Loren as navigator. He's riding with me to the homeland to drive back a truckload of furniture for his new home. More on that truck and furniture later.
No casual cruising here, no soaking in the natural beauty of our beloved nation -- with Loren along it's not allowed. Just go fast and then faster, watching the blurs that are Tennessee, Virginia, West Virginia, and Maryland as they fill up and then drain away from my windscreen.
This is too bad, really, because my beloved Shenandoah Valley may just be one of the most beautiful places on all of God's green earth. However, thanks to Loren I did learn the cheapest gas stops and corresponding mile markers (to the tenth of a mile, mind you) along the I-40 and I-81 corridors. B2's Helpful Travel Hint: If you want to bust Loren's chops and make him crazy, never stop where he wants. I had a ball doing so, but he later exacted a terrible revenge involving the aforementioned truck and furniture.
Ahh, Pennsylvania, the Keystone State! We can smell blood now, because the next stop is the New York border and ... not so fast, sport. With Harrisburg in my rearview mirror, we first had to avoid being murdered by a crazed Honda driver who cut us off on Route 15, near New Buffalo along the banks of the mighty Susquehanna River.
Seems this poor, oppressed, disadvantaged, urban American did not like the fact that Whitey was only doing ten miles per hour over the speed limit -- and was the slowest vehicle on the road. He swerved into the front end of my Dodge and B2 had to engage in what I like to term creative automotive adroitness to avoid a crash that would probably have killed the racist and certainly harmed several other drivers.
After our heart rates slowed down to mere stroke level, we looked for the bigot, planning to call in his plate to Pennsylvania's finest, but he apparently felt that speed limits were just another way that Whitey was keeping him down.
From settlements to farmlands
Then on to better things. The drive north on Route 15 was pleasant along the river, passing through or near settlements such as Selinsgrove, Shamokin, Sunbury, and Lewisburg, then into the spectacular hills that surround Williamsport, Trout Run, and Sebring, and continue all the way into Mansfield.
Hoo boy, the land is flattening out and we're getting close as we hit Tioga, then jump the state line at Lawrenceville and on to Painted Post, New York. Haven't figured out how they do it, but Route 17/Interstate 86 is always in a perpetual state of road construction. The same road segments were under construction when I was a child, just as they are under construction today. So it's west on 17 past the familiar Pollyo plant and finally the exit for Bath, Gateway to Keuka Lake.
Just prior to taking Route 54 toward Keuka, our friend Dounce graces us with a cell phone call. "Hurry Up! Where are you? Hurry up, let's go to Pronti's for supper. Hurry Up! What took you so long?" So much for stress relief.
The lake at last
Perambulate northward along the familiar road, through Bath and past the Hammondsport turn-off, and then left onto East Lake Road and Keuka Lake as dusk is settling. Tired, disheveled, smelly, ready for rest, we jump out of my truck and ... jump right into into KC2's truck.
Then off again on a mini road trip to Geneva for too much good food and not enough time for the good company of Dounce, KC2, and Loren. Stagger to KC2's big Chevy diesel, sleepless, mind-numbed, belly full, and still buzzing from the road. Then on to the lake and a few blissful hours of peace, quiet, and another three hours of sleep in that special, star-studded darkness that you find only in the undeveloped places of our beautiful country.
It is late Friday the 16th and B2 is Upstate where his life began.