A Study in Contrasts So I had Wednesday off from work. Just a vacation day. Took the kitties for some shots, ran a few errands. Then I came home and realized that it was *OMG* 50 degrees out and sunny and I turned off the heat and flung open the windows and danced outside like a crazy woman.

Well, not exactly.

I moved some slate that the previous owner left into the garden to start to plan the path that I'll build with them. So, not so much dancing, but more lifting and placing. Still. 50 degrees.  I worked without a jacket, in a t-shirt, on January 11.  Fantastic!

Fast forward 1 day.  Today.  Thursday.  Snowstorm Day.

It's 22 degrees out and the snow is coming down fast. It's slick as hell out there and we have to drive home on a rural highway with fast winds blowing drifts over rolling fields, and crazy people who forget the rules of the road.

J picks me up and I strap myself in and grab the "oh shit" bar. You know the one. The one on the passenger side, near the top of the window. The one you grab when you don't want centrifugal force to plaster you against the window, or for when you don't want to die and your grip on this tiny little piece of plastic is going to actually help you. That one.

Every corner, we slip a little. J tells me that this car slips a lot more than our previous one, or even any of his previous ones. That's why you are driving. Not me. We creep along at a snail's pace, give ourselves plenty of room, and I keep eyeing cars suspiciously if they get what I perceive to be too close.

I tighten my grip on the Oh Shit Bar.  My fingers are losing feeling.  J's really a very good driver.  He learned to drive in the Army, on giant Army trucks.  Trucks so old their top speed was 50 mph.  He always says they were Korean era, and I imagine those old trucks being shipped all of the way over to Iraq or Afghanistan and dying in a desert somewhere, and the local populace looking at them and shaking their head, and saying, "Geez.  These Americans drive some crappy trucks."

We get on the highway, and J tells me that he's going to take it up to 40, and I decide that at 40 mph the Oh Shit Bar isn't going to help me and I try to relax.   We try to pick the clearest lane and stick with it.  People are passing us and I see he's edging to 45.  We are still being passed.  It doesn't matter to these people that you can see brake lights ahead, or that we can see a big pack of cars all bunched up.  Nope, doesn't matter.  To this I say, good riddance.  Keep away from my car.  Kill yourself well away from me.  Enjoy the 20 seconds you've gained.

The sides of the highway look steep, and I imagine slipping off the edge of the highway and into a tree.  Back comes the safety of the Oh Shit Bar.  I know there's only two more exits, and a lot of people will get off there.  Less people, good.  Then it turns into a winding country road, and only two lane.  Bad.

We get into the lane that we should be in for bypassing the last highway exit, prepped to enter the two lane road, and someone leans on their horn and zooms by on our left.  Because on normal roads, you could pass someone quickly on the left and merge right.  Or maybe because we were in the lane and they didn't understand that you had to be in that lane to go straight and that the left lane ended.  I don't know.  The mysteries of the angry car horn.  I almost wish they'd given us the finger.  At least there's no dispute when you get the finger.   You know that they think you are at fault, and it's not a situation you can reasonably fix.    A car horn could be a simple "hey!  watch out!" or a friendly "hey there!".

The folks on the two lane part have slowed down, semi-responsibly, but I feel like we still need to be cautious.  There's a part when you go over a hill, and there's this cross road.  It seems there's a lot of accidents there.  I see brakelights, and tell J "Lights ahead."

Now, he does this to me, all of the time.  So it's not just me being a nervous rider, you see.  We are looking out for each other here.  And I don't want to die on a slippery road in the middle of a snowstorm two days before my birthday.  Besides, I already know how I'll die.  I'm going to sneeze so hard one day that my brains are going to jump out of my nose.  Quick and violent.  Sneeze related.  I have it all planned.  I shall die as I have lived.

Side note:  I recently sneezed so hard that I accidently hung up the phone while I was leaving a voice mail.  I then had to call back and apologize.  The salesman that I'd called told me that it was from eating food that was covered in other location's pollen.  So, if I could just not eat food from other places, I could get some relief.  Yeah, maybe.  But it's January, so the likelyhood of me getting local oranges or lettuce are pretty low.  But something to think about.  Come July, I'll lock myself up with just my garden and give this theory a try.  Until then, Claritin!

We were getting closer.  Up ahead there were police lights.  Some guy had his car on the side of the road, and there were two cops near him.  Cop cars always have the effect of making everyone extra good, so there were model snow driving behaviors.  Seriously, if they want to teach driver's ed classes, they should make kids ride in the back of a cop car for a while.  They will start to understand a lot about pack behavior, about safety belts, about car crashes, and about how difficult puke must be to get off those little plastic shields.  I tell you, kids could learn a lot.

Meanwhile, I'm concerned about the van behind us.  He's been following way too close.  When we pass the cops, he's backed way off, but I know that 1 1/2 mile ahead there's our turn, and it's sharp and we usually can pull a bit off the road to make it, but not today.  Hell, I'm not even sure we'll be able to stop.  And on the other side of the road is a stable with horses, and I really don't want to hit a horse.

J tells me that he's going to wait until after the hill to signal, and that's less than a 1/8 mile.  Now, I'm an early signaller.  I confess.  I'm one of those people who wants to make her intentions known in plenty of time.  I want people to realize I'm slowing down so they can slow down, and the car behind them can slow down and the car behind them.   I do this in GOOD weather.  J's driving, so all I can do is white-knuckle the Oh Shit Bar.   He does his thing, the van behind us pulls over into the LEFT lane to pass us.  Best of luck, my friend.  I hope you find a quicker car to tailgate next. 

I'm 42 on Saturday, and I drive like a 72 year old.  Or maybe, I ride like a little old woman.  Sorry about that.

We have foot high drifts in our driveway.  The snow is piled in ripples that are pretty and pristine.  I'm sure my beautiful slate garden path is covered in snow until spring.  We are home, safely, slowly.  Finally home.  I let go of the Oh Shit Bar. 

J told me that J's cousin Corey knew some Turkish cooks at a former job.    Turkish?  Indian?  Muslim?  Maybe I'm getting the details wrong.   Anyway, they said, "He who travels slowly, travels far."

I like that.  I may be pokey, but I'm still here.  Beat that.

Labels: blizzard, car, snow, trip

  ¶ 8:06 PM