Life is a Highway... Literally

I used to really love driving. That’s right – used to. I think my love affair with the road began after I passed my drivers test on attempt numero dos (no thanks to you, rogue purple minivan – who buys a purple van, anyway? A road test sabotaging jerk, that’s who) and sadly, ended a few months ago. What caused such a rift? Was it the strains of a long distance relationship? Or was everything moving too fast? On the contrary, I submit that it was moving too slowly, and that this has killed my love of driving. The following narration depicts a typical drive for me.

Garage
7:00 am
Despite my best efforts to the contrary, I’m awake and it’s time to leave for work. I insert a CD, the contents of which directly reflect my mood, which in the morning could be generously described as ‘miffed at the world.’ After navigating the gauntlet of garden paraphernalia that is my driveway, I’m on my way.

Back roads
7:04 am
Hmm, not much traffic on these roads. I feel powerful, with no slow cars reigning me in. What’s this joy I feel? Could I be… in love with the road again? Or is it the llamas on Florida Road? They are some cute llamas.

Intersection of Death St. and Poor Visibility Ave.
7:08 am
A blind left turn onto a 50 mph road: the first indication of what kind of a drive it’s going to be. Best case scenario: a school bus on the right stops all traffic, while wood nymphs and dancing squirrels lead me in an unrushed left turn. The peasants rejoice. Worst case scenario: Indy 500 tryouts rejected for excessive speed scream over the hill in a rainstorm; when I make a break for it, I inadvertently hit a school bus filled with puppies and children. Explosions, mayhem and a sense of ‘preventable death’ permeate the scene. Usually I shoot for somewhere in the middle of that spectrum. The other problem is that I have to execute this turn from a hill. I’m sure this doesn’t sound problematic to those of you with automatic transmissions. But I drive a stick shift. Now, I drive better than when I took a test drive and killed it five times in front of oncoming traffic. But that's a story for another time. I have improved a great deal, but hills are still a sticking point. So to speak. I can start on a hill, but another car idling in my exhaust pipe makes this harder than it needs to be. This morning, no one was behind me. Perhaps today will be different…

On-ramp to I-69 S
7:10 am
Today is no different. An eighteen-wheeler claims the right lane as his own, refusing to acknowledge the on-ramp peons. Thanks, buddy. Soon, though, I’m actually going the speed limit. I am hopeful for the future, but resigned to reality. Surely this won’t last.

I-69 S
7:15 am
And it didn’t last. I’m now going 4 mph. Time for a new CD- suddenly whatever I’m listening to is too cheery. It’s pissing me off. At this rate, I should get to work a little bit after lunch.

I-69 S
7:17 am
Completely stopped now. I can’t understand why; there are three lanes. Unless someone has built a cement wall across them, I see no reason for our complete lack of ‘go.’ Becoming increasingly irate. I glare at the tinted windows of my fellow commuters. I need to blame someone- I choose to blame them. Why don’t we GO?!? I put the car into reverse, as that is the inevitable next step.

Exit 0
7:29 am
Finally, my exit. The word ‘exit’ seems to imply a release, an exchange for something new. In this case, it means a lateral movement within the same circle of hell, or perhaps a move to a lower level if road construction is involved. But I bet that wouldn’t fit on the exit sign. That’s all right. Call me psychic, but the bright orange signs are giving me a clear indication of what lies ahead. Keep those belts on, kids. We’re halfway there.

I-465 W
7:36 am
Why do I always get stuck behind the hot-dogging semi driver who can “totally handle three trailers, no problem”? And why do all these trucks have modified mufflers that expel exhaust not as fumes but as 90 mph exhaust bullets that glance off of my windshield like, well, actual bullets off of Superman? And why does all of my music SUCK? CDs, you’re being shelved. You’re up, radio. Thank God for soothing, soothing scan. This is my first scan-enabled radio after years of coveting others’. Mmm, scan. There’s always something better on the radio.

I-465 W
7:40 am
Except for today, evidently. Because we’re stopping on static. STATIC. What’s so special about this static that I had to listen to it, scan? Did ya think I’d like it? You skipped all the other static, why’d you stop here? This is so NOT a station, it’s not even funny. I hate you, scan. Although, come to think of it, static might be preferable to, say, Radio Disney. The entire musical repertoire of that station consists of Hillary Duff’s album, the Baha Men’s seemingly eternal curiosity about dog liberation and the musical migraine that is the Hamster Dance. Yeesh – static’s sounding better and better.

I-465: Construction Ground Zero
7:46 am
These ‘reduced speed 35 mph’ signs are mocking me. I haven’t broken 15 mph for twenty minutes now. Shut up, sign. I think it speaks to my irritable state of mind when I say ‘shut up’ to things that a) are inanimate, b) cannot hear me and c) were not making noise to begin with.

I-465 S
7:47 am
Stopped again, for what seems like no reason other than the drivers ahead of me slowing down to gawk at the big yellow construction vehicles. Look – I’ll pony up and buy you your very own Bob the Builder video if you promise to watch it at home during rush hour. Then you can see the bulldozers all you want, and I won’t have to invent new curse words or hurt my throat yelling about how you should be rolled up in a carpet and thrown off of a bridge. Deal?

I-465 S
7:50 am
The last ten minutes of this drive actually go the fastest – even with the copious and erratic stop lights. Or the car seat (sans baby, thankfully) in the middle of the road. How on earth does that happen? I mean, I can think of a few scenarios. Most include Social Services and some jail time, or at the very least a very addle-brained consumer, returning home from a quick jaunt to Starbucks and her local car seat store becoming confused upon finding a mocha latte securely buckled in the back seat.

Parking lot
8:ish
After a drive like that, anything they throw at me during the workday would be fine, you’re thinking. You, who have obviously never been on the business end of an automated pipetter for eight hours. Your naïveté makes me smile wistfully, thinking of my own pre-pipette innocence.

It’s been said that we find value in the journey and not in the destination. However, I’d have to argue that this case ends in a draw, with both the journey and the destination awarded a big ol’ bucket chock-full of awful. I like to find my value laying by the pool, sipping multicolored beverages adorned with equally multicolored paper umbrellas. As for me and the road… our future remains uncertain. Maybe we’ll talk if I can ever get Tom Cochrane’s ‘Life is a Highway’ out of my head.