ON THE ROAD AGAIN

This particular road trip took place 8/27/01, before the horrible events of September.

         Cabin fever got the best of us today. At 8:30 this morning the dog and I piled into the wagon and went off to Philadelphia to see a client. I am not sure the dog knew we were going to Philadelphia, but she is game for whatever destination I suggest. 'Champing at the bit" you could almost say, but perhaps slobbering all over the driver would be the better phrase.

         Even with time out to permit the dog to upchuck her breakfast at the first rest stop on the Thruway, and two more stops to empty my bladder, we made good time until we reached the Essex tollbooth on the Garden State Parkway. Tollbooths, as you know, are a means of bringing cars doing the Parkway prevailing speed of eighty plus to a complete halt while thirty-five cents is dropped in a collection box. The cowboys then demonstrate their zero to sixty acceleration as they leave the booths to speed on to the next one.

         I now have an 'E-Z" pass which allows a machine to read a box on my windshield and send me a bill. It is a technology that allows me to keep up with the gearheads who must stop to toss the coins. But as I left Essex, I saw traffic backed up in front of me. The left of three lanes was closed, cones blocking access. Traffic slowed in places to less than thirty miles per hour. I kept expecting construction but found none.

         Four or five miles later, at that wonderful spot where the Parkway and a cemetery coexist, with the grave stones chock-a-block with both shoulders of the highway, a truck was visible in the left lane, a yellow revolving light on its roof. Mystery solved. This truck seemed to have no other purpose than to put out cones. When I returned north, there was no construction in the lane, and it was opened. I have the feeling it was a day when someone at headquarters said; "I know what will tick them off, let's put out cones for nothing."

         The less said about hot and muggy Philadelphia the better. The dog stayed in the car in an indoor garage with the windows open. Woe is to the person who tries to rifle my vehicle. I went off and finished my work in forty minutes, including two free jokes and a fortune telling. I returned to the car to go home. I started the car. I had never turned it off on the way south until I parked it because I knew what would happen, which did now. The 'CHECK ENGINE' light came on.

         It is the light that never fails. I would think something were wrong if it did not send me the message. It lit again after I stopped at the first rest stop to give the dog some water, and after the second and what would be last, stop on the Garden State Parkway to fill the tank. It was at that stop that I reacquainted myself with a scourge of the past, the Krispy Kreme donut.

         Columbia, South Carolina had a Krispy Kreme shop in 1967. I can remember thinking of those glazed, sticky, sweet wads of dough with the same distaste I had for another southern specialty of those parts, pecan pie. Now Krispy Kreme is all the rage and a darling of the stock market too.

         I had not eaten since before six. As I drove up the Jersey Turnpike I kept yawning, stretching, doing anything to keep awake. I was smart enough to know that while cruise control works, it is not automatic pilot. As my tank was filled, I bought coffee and two Krispy Kreme glazed donuts. I drove off, biting into my prize. 1967 came back. Two thumbs down, too sweet. Yet they served a purpose; the sugar rush jolted me awake and I put off sipping the hot coffee until I reached Route 17.

         Route 17 is New Jersey's last piece of revenge on New York motorists. Maybe they have dropped a bundle at a casino in Atlantic City. Or, maybe, like me, they rejected the $2.64 hot dog, or frozen yogurt for that same bargain price while trying to stave off starvation at one of the so-called Service Areas on the Turnpike. Then they had to face the madmen who drive the Garden State Parkway, where anything having four wheels and two axles can make an appearance. The final straw, however, for the poor unsuspecting driver is the gauntlet from Paramus to Mahwah.

         It is only thirteen miles before the road jumps into the meat grinder where traffic from I-287 heading for the Tappan Zee Bridge crosses Route 17 traffic heading for Albany. The road passes expensive car dealerships, day rate motels, Bennigans and Houlihan's and the rest of the Irish restaurant Mafia, along with three million gas stations. It goes up and down hills. It has six lanes. It is fifty miles an hour in Paramus, fifty-five the rest of the way. IT IS AN A-1 SPEED TRAP. If the Paramus police don't get you, Saddle River might, and if they fail, Ramsey surely will.

         My plug-ugly station wagon seems to deflect the police, but when I see a stopped driver on 17, even a driver of an obnoxious SUV, I say to myself, 'there but for the grace...."

         As I am giving thanks, I am nearly run over by a flatbed on the downslope to the Thruway. Why does he hurry? I will catch and pass him on a hill. The sky darkens. A storm is coming and hits just past Newburgh. Drive on! I usually drive the Thruway, "My Thruway" I call it, at night and have done so in fog, snow and rain. Daylight driving, even in rain, is a piece of cake.

         I keep my speed and the left lane, come upon trucks that loom out of their self-created mist in the right lane, and barrel on past. A yellow Shop-Rite truck is in the left lane. I am following a Volvo station wagon. "Hit your brights", I think but the Volvo, and I, finally dip to the right and pass on that side. We continue as a small caravan, though at one point a Nissan or Honda sporty type feels our eighty plus is too slow and buzzes around us on the right also.

         Nearing Kingston, the storm lets up and heads east, making for Connecticut, and I notice behind me a car with a funny assembly on the roof as I pass a van. 'Can't be but it might be', so I flick the turn signal and shift to the right lane, as does the Volvo. The State Trooper passes on the left and gets off at Kingston, as does the Volvo. Later someone else's number will come up, not mine.

         It has not rained at home. The house is still standing, if warm inside. Susie Cat did not burn it down smoking in bed. The dog refills her water tank. As I write this she is sleeping on the floor, tired from her ordeal standing at my side between the seats, protecting me. They say travel broadens the mind. Before dozing off, she asked me if she could join the State Troopers. She likes their hats.