Road trippin'

Road trips are today’s medieval conquests without all of the killing and plagues. Plans are laid down sometimes months in advance of the pillage, which is usually what a pilgrimage turns into. Transportation is readied with the stores of survival and weapons of war. Vehicles are packed; no space is without something in its place. If it does not belong there, then shove harder. We will take more than we need because you never know when that ‘80s vintage windbreaker or the fourth extra pair of shoes will be called into action. One cannot be too careful when traveling to foreign lands just two states away. The Boy Scouts believe in always being prepared, but are they prepared to take it to the limit, break it, come back and fix it just to kick it when it is down? I don’t think they are, but the mass of necessities in the back of the vehicle says that is what we are prepared to do.

City Limit sign on the opposite side of the road says it is time to break out in a cold sweat panic trying to remember what you were not supposed to forget to bring. Was it a guide? Did you remember underwear and socks? You always remember the favorite hat, the one that is see-through and has been to three continents or your lucky shirt, but the necessities; those are the sleepers that you forget to pack. Curses of all things unholy it was the toothbrush again, with the candlestick in the library. No? I put the toothbrush in with the toothpaste and razor. Mind racing against the clock you have an uneasy feeling of leaving the iron on and then peace washes a wave of warm salty ocean water over your body. You have everything. Was that a cop, check your speed. Five over should be fine, right?

Counting the mile markers makes time hit the brakes slamming into reverse turning the vehicle into solitary confinement with no chance for parole. The tires on the chip and seal sing a siren song that painfully reminds you that you are not there yet. You know its melody and the chorus; it is the same as it ever was. How much longer can the off-beat syncopated seams in this road last, can someone just cut them so they are able to keep time? Misery does indeed love company and we are both headed in the same direction. Just when the thoughts of turning the wheel into the oncoming traffic and ending it all feels like the only thing left to do, it is there on the side of the road. Destination 126. Only 126 miles left, that is the vision that gives reason to continue with the journey. A numeration that signals the finality of the trek, the prize that is the destination is just ahead, a point on the map.

When the little hand points to E the search begins for the next available services. Bringing the vehicle to a stop halts all forward progress, but every fiber in the body says otherwise. The first freedom is met with pain as the unused muscles are now forced to provide locomotion, one step after the other seems so unnatural. Make this stopping of travel brief, time is still making progress. Roadside services are all the same. Everyone is an extra in a low-budget b movie where nicotine and poor personal hygiene are as celebrated as is their ‘70s western attire. Smoke Filled Room is the industrial strength air freshener choice of the day, with a hint of fried whatever. The restroom is always being cleaned, especially if your bladder is beyond the recommended capacity, but once allowed into the newly cleaned facility there is only a one word question. Really?

Hitting the lottery, winning an election, Christmas morning, living through a plane crash, holds nothing to the feeling of reaching the destination with bleary eyes numb body parts and an irritable disposition. Arriving transforms all of the wrongs to rights, time is restored the planets realign. Destinations would not hold their value if the process of travel were simple without suffering. Memories of past conquests are made more powerful with every soul wrenching tic of time spent trying to arrive.