TRAVEL TIPS | DRIVING

Road Trip Tips: 3 Days of Hazards, French Fries, Busy Hands, Dry Lips, Wet Eyes

One troubling mystery still lingers.

Jeez, Louise, my guardian angels deserve a raise.

Three separate bizarre happenings on the road could have wiped me out.

I loathe driving from Florida to New Jersey, every single time I do it.

For the first time, I spread the dreaded trek out over 3 days averaging 6 to 7 hours apiece. My herniated discs voted for this and it was a great decision.

Wish they had seen to a bit more, but I can’t have everything. God forbid I choose hotels with a sink stopper, a working ice machine on my floor, or a refrigerator with a defrosted freezer compartment to fit anything bigger than a toothpick.

First Close Call

Cruising along I-95, which runs up America’s eastern coast, I skillfully worked with the long haulers, tractor-trailers, and inept drivers in Georgia who don’t deserve to cruise the left lane.

The road debris is more obvious than the potholes. Tire treads strewn about the highway’s shoulders made me curious — there are so many.

Where are the cars that are losing these layers and why?

Being fully engaged in my off-key, “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” by Brooks & Dunn, a loud bang, or pop — a bit like a blast — startled me into turning down the volume.

What the hell was that?

My happy place was ripped away.

Shredded tire treads rained down on my windshield and all drivers swerved willy-nilly to avoid rubber chunks.

Once I released my white knuckles from the steering wheel, I raised my hands to the heavens in thanks.

There he was.

A tractor-trailer to my right had blown a tire that flapped as he coasted safely to the shoulder. Kudos to him for his reaction and hail to my guardian angels who must not favor my singing voice.

I imagine that my angels were pleased with my use of hand gestures though, to direct other drivers, versus my vocal tendencies when I am alone in the Jeep.

They would continue to save me.

Tip: Avoid road trips.

Second Close Call

I spied an unusual shape in the lane as I quickly approached it. South Carolina, possibly. Do I swerve? Where?

Cars were flying by in all the lanes.

Vehicles pulled quick side maneuvers to avoid the strange road nuisance.

What the hell is that?

Freakin’ drywall.

Drywall?

A large panel of plasterboard flipped up as the car in front of me caught its edge and it propelled toward my front end.

Gravity pulled it down and it never blocked my view. I ran square over the sheetrock and it splintered it into large confetti for the driver behind me.

Tip: Seriously, avoid road trips.

Third Close Call

As a superior driver, my excellence affords me the right to maintain my position in the speedy left lane.

Trucks hauling anything should be relegated to the far right. However, they often feel a need to play cat and mouse by hanging to the side of me.

I hold truckers responsible for my responsive acceleration.

A tarp-covered hauler in North Carolina was a half mile ahead of me and I had him in my crosshairs. Oh, yes, I will zoom past him.

No gameplay with me, Mutha Trucker.

As I neared him from his left, of course, I was greeted with a sandstorm that escaped from under his tarp. Tiny pellets peppered my windshield and danced before my eyes.

My censored role, due to the little man strapped in his car seat in the back, had me reduced, once again, to wild hand gestures.

Wham!

Rocks.

Two baby boulders — to me, anyway — made loud contact with us, one on my windshield and one on my grill and hood area. The thuds were great enough that my grandson broke his attention away from his PBS Kids’ video to ask me what made the explosion.

No cracks or chips were visible on my Jeep.

We still have to survive through Virginia, Maryland, and Delaware.

Tip: Fly, just fly instead.

A Mystery

As we traveled north, the temperatures dropped quickly. Did I mention I abhor cold weather?

I located the climate control button on my dashboard, never before used, for the heating elements.

Who knew how luxurious a heated steering wheel could make a girl feel?

And then, I spotted the heated seat feature. Heaven on earth.

My aching back quivered in warmed delight. My hands lovingly caressed the steering wheel’s radiating heat.

I was oddly overcome with a desire for french fries. It’s been ten years or so since I ate any. My grandson doesn’t eat them either.

I could clearly smell them, fresh out of McDonald’s fry basket.

What the hell?

I’m no mathematician, but I know 2 + 2 equals 4.

Me. It’s me.

I smell like french fries, don’t I?

Just by adding a little warmth to my posterior, my pheromones or natural scent rose to the surface and permeated through the vehicle.

Is that possible?

To emit an odor of deliciousness?

There’s no itching or burning, so, yeah — no. Medical concerns were off the table.

It may, however, explain the magnetic draw I possess for the heavy-set men that come a-knockin’.

I had the heat set to mimic the high 70s and 80s of Florida and my grandson’s lips turned bright red and split from dryness.

By day three, he was done. The 5-year-old had gone from, “I’m so exciting to visit New Jersey,” (adorable, right?) to a blubbering mess.

He began to sob. “My eyes are so sad and now they are wet,” he said.

“I get it, buddy. We’ll be there soon. Or someday.”

I zoomed across the lanes at the last second to exit the highway in Virginia.

“But first, McDonald’s fries?”

Previous trips to New Jersey had me pondering survival on the road.

If you can’t beat them, join them.

Ready to read without limitations? Pennies a day, my friend, pennies a day.

Have you visited the pub Engage? Go see Rui Alves, he’s on his game.

Michael Rhodes may be onto something with the near misses I experience on the road.

Connect with me and say hello!

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