The return from Cleveland to Columbus never qualified as a fun drive. But among the blinking orange barrels sullying a chaste, moonless night, when the cream counts more than the coffee, it's just dangerous. I limped into town last night, pushing the 20-hour mark wanting the trip to end.
Regular coffee never tasted so impotent, and the thick blanket of stars only served to pull my mind away from roads cut to one lane for late-night repaving and toying with drivers (on one stretch, five miles of orange cones led straight to 200 square feet of roadwork). For at least 60 miles, I passed nothing but 18-wheelers,. discounting two highway patrol cruisers keeping us all semi-honest.
I'd not felt that tired while driving since the home stretch of a 3-day blitz from C-bus to Los Angeles, when we crossed the mountains between Vegas and L.A. and neared 24 hours in the car. We pulled that one off without cigarettes - I needed one at Lodi and again at Mt. Gilead when the rush of the first imploded into drowsiness.
But the Spine of Ohio is familiar road; my knowledge of I-5 still goes no further than my friend's headlights, and the blinking red marking the peaks for airplanes.
No comments:
Post a Comment