In another life I think I’d have been a good truck driver. It seemed like a pretty cool job when I was a kid. Trucks had a sweet little cabin behind the seats. I’d been in one. This was at a truckstop somewhere in New Mexico when whomever was watching me was god knows where, probably the bathroom. I asked a trucker to show me his little house. And he, being a complete fucking dipshit but at least that was the worst of his crimes, showed me the cabin. It looked huge to my seven year old eyes. Truckers got to eat in diners all the time. They could listen to the radio all the way. All they had to do was drive.
The only other job I was sure I’d be as good at was private detective. Seemed like the main job requirements for that were the ability to sit in a car and eat sandwiches. I fucking loved sandwiches. Still do.
Neither job panned out on account of my realizing they might not pay what I thought or might be a little more involved and I didn’t try to be either. But I’m probably not wrong about the driving a truck thing.
I have a weird ability to drive 8 or 12 or 18 hours at a stretch. Take a break for gas and peeing, do a couple jumping jacks and back on the road. I don’t doze off. I don’t look away from the road. I don’t get bored. Or I do, I’m just used to being bored.
I started driving from Amarillo to Sumter, SC and back, 21 hours each way. Then Sumter to Provincetown—17 hours. Then DC to New Orleans, 18 hours. DC to my family’s homes in Rhode Island, 10 hours. You get the idea.
Lately I’ve been known to nap at rest stops. My last car, a little jeep compass, I had it set up in the back with a camp pad and a sleeping bag, and I could sleep in relative comfort. This came in handy a year ago when I had less than 48 hours to make it from Yarmouth, MA, to Austin—30 hours—for a vaccine. (Long story that ends in my getting stuck in Austin for the ice storm.)
It used to make sense. I didn’t have a lot of vacation time. Why waste two days driving when I could do it in one. If I had money for hotels, I probably would’ve had money for a flight. But nowadays, I still catch myself doing it, the cannonball run to my destination, for no fucking reason whatsoever. I can’t fall asleep because I’m still vibrating from the road. Inevitably someone wants to talk to me at the destination when I’m still completely fucking road-crazy. And lately, my dog’s fucking pissed because he doesn’t care for the crime novels I always choose for audio books.
Anyway, I crash drove to DC, because I had to. But I realized at some point yesterday that I do not have to crash-drive back home. I don’t even have a job. So I pulled off the road at the Pigeon Forge exit in Tennessee because that’s where Dolly’s from. I wasn’t interested in Dollywood. But I’ve driven past that sign more times than I can count and never took the exit. My mood changed instantly. Or maybe I suddenly had a mood other than 16 more hours need gas before arkansas keep eye on gas 15:59 hours left. you can make it by midnight. you’re gonna make it. 15 hours is nothing. Don’t even look at the miles. andI rolled down the windows and followed random signs. Saw a cool old mill. Saw a terrifying murder cabin hanging off a cliffside. Saw a soft serve stand and pulled over. Let Woody have the vanilla side. Eventually, I saw a sign for a trail head near a lake. So Woody and I took a hike, and he took a swim.
I didn’t make it out of Tennessee tonight. But now I can say I’ve been to Pigeon Forge. My dog hates me a little less. And I’m not even vibrating. I wonder if there’s anything fun for Woody to do in Arkansas.
When I was living in DC I'd make the drive to Chicago and back for family quite often and most of the time in a straight shot. I have a dog, and for a time two dogs, one an unneutered aging Rottweiler with anger issues that I could not leave in the car - nor would I ever - with my chow/Rottie/Shepherd mix. So we'd only stop at the rest stops on the turnpikes where I would sneak in with both in tow into the largest bathroom stall. I like driving straight through too, using the digital clock to make sure I maintain a steady speed rather than cruise control — 60 miles in 60 minutes at 60 mph, and so on— and only sometimes, when it got dark on a Sunday and world music was on the public radio station, would I turn on the radio. The 10-12 hour stretch of quiet, depending on the weather, was meditative, it cleared my head and was a great excuse not to answer phone, tweet, or otherwise engage electronically. Got a lot of great thinking done, even wrote some poems and book chapters in my head. I also experienced the vibrating after that kind of trip and needed a good night's sleep before I engaged, chatted with anyone especially my mom.
Sandwiches are the goddamn best.
Also, when I moved to SF, I did three consecutive 12-to-13-hour driving days: St. Pete to Beaumont; Beaumont to Las Cruces; Las Cruces to Bakersfield. Then four hours to SF.