Some of my best writing is
done while I’m traveling in the car, which is an excellent concept for someone
who spends as much time on the road as I do.
The only drawback to writing while in the car is that I am usually the
one who is driving. This whole “writing
while driving” schtick is as remarkably efficient as it is potentially
dangerous.
Fear not! I have a system.
I have a hard-bound spiral
notebook, and I randomly make notes across it.
I never know exactly what I’ve written until I try to decipher it hours
(days) later. Basically, I’m tooling
along at 75+mph (don’t panic – speed limit on the Maine turnpike is 70 mph)
taking notes on the minutiae of my life.
Since I am driving to Maine and writing my way across three state
borders, naturally my brain starts funneling great story ideas and random
crucially important thoughts.
These thoughts initially
start when I am stuck behind a gray Prius.
Apparently, this idiot driving the gray Prius fails to understand the
concept and, dare I say, THE LAW about hogging up the passing lane while going
10 miles below the speed limit.
Honestly, I’m in no hurry. More
honestly, though, please get the fuck out of my way if you’re going to drive
like a dick. I finally pass the gray
Prius and continue toward the highway.
To try and buoy my driving
mood, which usually vacillates somewhere between slight road rage and extreme
road rage, I have two GPS systems going: the Tom-Tom is set to Scottish
comedian Billy Connelly (“Half a mile … PAY ATTENTION”), while the phone app
WAZE is set to Elvis (“Check it out, mama, police reported ahead”). It makes me smile when the two of them
compete for my attention. It is
especially uplifting approaching 495 from route 125 in Bradford because, even
though both visuals have me going on the same road, Billy wants me to stay
right while Elvis wants me to stay left.
Silly boys! I cannot possibly be in two places at
once. So I let them hash it out amongst
themselves as they desperately try to recalculate my every move. I am notorious for ignoring their directives
in favor of more scenic or more expedient routes, and it aggravates the shit
out of the computer systems and pre-programmed maps. I take sadistic pleasure out of outsmarting
technology since it wreaks havoc in my life at work on a daily basis.
Just before I’m ready to
take the entrance ramp for the highway, I find myself stuck behind more
slowpokes. I can see far enough around
the line of traffic to know that one numbskull is holding us all up, and I
watch impatiently as cars in front of me start weaving around the Pace
Car. I am too close to the turn I must
take, so I figure I’ll just pass the car when I hit the three-lane speedway
known as 495. I get closer to the
offending slowpoke and – surprise! It’s
another gray Prius. The Prius decides
that “merging onto the highway” actually means “stopping until traffic is
completely nonexistent,” and I almost take off its rear bumper with the front
end of my nasty old Dodge.
Apparently, if you’re
going to drive like an asshole, you need to be driving a gray Prius.
The drab morning sky that
results from overnight torrential downpours melts into a blue sky by the time I
hit the beach exits. Luckily, the
weather and cloudiness discourage early-risers, and my trip through the Hampton
tolls is surprisingly fast. Well, it’s
fast because of the weather and also because I have an EZ Pass, which means I
can scream through this toll at a steady 65 mph. Most others are sailing through at around 75
mph, but Elvis has rightfully warned me of the police ahead, so I mind my speedometer
and keep to the 65mph without wavering one tiny millimeter from that spot on
the dashboard.
I do have to slow down to
10 mph going through the Maine turnpike tollbooth, EZ Pass or not, and I am
happy to start rolling along at 70+ mph.
I say, I’m happy to …. I’m … I’d be happy … JEEZUSCHRISTALMIGHTY, MOVE
THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!!!! IT’S THE DAMN
LAW! MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!
I am held up yet again by
someone who does not understand the concept of a passing lane, regardless of
how many signs are along the highway. It’s
not a gray Prius this time; instead, it’s a pick-up truck. I see several cars behind me swerve to the
right to pass the truck and I join suit, each of us hitting the slow lane at a
pokey 80 mph. I look in my rearview
mirror and shake my head as the truck continues to hog the passing lane and
more drivers zoom around it by weaving in and out of the right lane.
It is during this maneuver,
a mere eight miles shy of my exit (according to both Billy and Elvis), that my
pen flies off into the oblivion of the passenger side floor. Out of all the stupid things that have
happened to me this morning, this is the one thing that actually causes me
agida. I mean, what if I suddenly get a
fantastic idea – oh, shit, I think I have a fantastic idea – and I can’t reach
the pen that is now rolling back and forth on the floor mat.
I lean down to try and
blindly grab the pen, the car edging over the line into the empty next
lane. Nope; that isn’t a smart plan.
I really, really, really
need that pen.
I quickly and with great
dexterity transfer a flip flop from my foot into my right hand. I check my mirrors. Damn, traffic is approaching. To be on the safe side, I get myself into the
slow lane, which is still tooling along at a mere 78 mph. I lean slightly sideways, rake my flip flop
across the floor a few times until I hear the pen move, then I bend down (eyes
still on the road and left hand still deftly steering) and grab the purple pen.
Aha! Success!
Danger, yes, but I have the pen in my hand, and this is all because I
started out behind a gray Prius that gave me a touch of road rage.
Eight miles later, I exit
the turnpike and drive along at 25-30 mph toward my sister’s house. I pull in and park behind her Prius. Don’t panic.
It’s a black Prius, not a gray Prius, so it’s all good. Besides, my sister takes notes while she’s
driving, too. She uses Post-It notes as
opposed to my spiral-bound notebook, but she also uses the “scratch it down and
decipher it later” technique. Maybe she
has road-rage inspired stories to tell, as well. It wouldn’t surprise me; we learned from The
Master. My father had road rage
extraordinaire. His road rage was on
steroids. To be truthful, he had all
kinds of rage, and all of his rage was on steroids. This may explain why I am adept at using my
middle finger so strategically while behind the wheel.
I make it to my Maine
destination without ramming my car into anyone or anything, and my return trip
twelve hours later is equally successful.
I arrive in my driveway with a day full of memories and a notebook page
(front and back) cluttered with random story ideas. Like I said at the beginning, it’s a positive
thing that I do some of my best writing in the car; it’s a negative thing that
I’m the one driving down the road at 75+ mph while I’m doing this. It is, however, an art I have mastered over
time.
