A Texas Road Trip Odyssey

10/15/2024 – Leaving on a Jet Plane…

The following is a long, wandering narrative describing my very recent road trip. It serves no purpose other than to get the thoughts out of my head to make room for other things.

Traveling is fraught with peril. If you leave home, nine out of ten times, it won’t be there when you return. I am too old to start building another, so the risk of living the rest of my life untethered is disconcerting. However, missing Texas family, and with my old pickup truck to retrieve, I found no other options.

As a general statement, everyone I met or encountered for the duration of the trip was friendly, considerate and helpful. That includes airline staff and TSA personnel, TSA personnel and the masses populating the airport and aircraft. Smiling faces all, and many points to assist me heading in the right direction.

Ticketing, direct, or indirect has gone the way of every other commodity; airfare, tax, more tax, baggage fees, preferential seat fees, points, bonus points, etc. The airfare to Texas, with one stop, was around $200, but the up-sell adds brought the potential fare to $10,361… one way.

Fortunately, my butt isn’t seat particular, as no seat is particularly good, so the aircraft part of the trip programming was around $200, with wireless and an iPhone full of Kindle books and favorite songs.

Portland, ME

Digitized boarding passes and kiosk baggage tag printing was a snap. The false sense of being in control was appreciated. I did enjoy clearing security. “Isn’t there an age limit for having to remove shoes?” I queried. “Oh, that’s only for people 75 and older”, said smiling young woman who insisted I show proof of age. Look of surprise; 75 has long passed in my life’s rear view mirror.

There was airport entertainment. Seated at the flight’s crowded Delta gate, Kindle reading to pass the time, a youngish woman… mid thirties?… decided to exercise. Ms Exerciser was a tall woman, of a generous size, wearing black yoga pants and a black and white striped, extensively form following shirt.

Yes, of course I noticed. How could I not notice Hamburglar attire, especially when the person flopped on her back in the middle of a crowd, on the filthy carpet, pointed her legs straight into the air and began doing wide splits. A very flexible woman, she had people turning away to avoid feeling uncomfortable, and the possibly the potential of litigation.

The flight from Portland, ME to Detroit, MI was uneventful, other than my paper boarding pass seat selection remain static, while my digital boarding pass on the Delta phone app kept incrementing seat selection ever forward. The cheap seat purchased, empennage aligned, was replaced with a forward seat just behind first class. I do not know why. That flight was full.

Detroit, MI

The connecting flight gate at Detroit Metro was at the farthest opposite concourse; down several runs of powered walkways, and through long, under taxiway tunnel. It was the distance between Delta Southwest contracted flight gates, and the genuine Delta flight gates. While the hike was not enjoyable, it was in line with my physical rehab walking guidelines; walk until you can’t, stop for five minutes, repeat…

The departing flight gate agent, Jordan, called for anyone needing boarding assistance. A woman, guessing mid 50s to 60s, stuffed unsuccessfully into bright pink, very short shorts, with pale legs that covered in randomly and chaotically placed tattoos, pushing a matching bright pink stroller, pulling a large bright pink pink suitcase, and shouldering a huge bright pink carry on bag, rushed… barged to the front of the line.

Her bags were oversize for carry on, the baby stroller contained a dog, so an animated conversation with the gate agent ensued. Ms. Pink maintained a fixed gaze of not understanding anything throughout a twenty minute patient explanation. The conclusion was a first class passenger, sans baggage and stroller, carrying a small yippy dog boarding the plane. There is justice in this world.

I waited for my seat to be called, which came immediately after the rest of the passengers boarded claiming special dispensation. The front half of the plane was full, the rest near empty. I had a row to myself. Delta’s personnel were very nice, smiled a lot, and were in constant motion.

I finished one Kindle book and began another. Albert King sang “Born Under A Bad Sign”, Annie Lennox sang “Why”, and Buddy Guy and Bonnie Raitt sang “Feels Like Rain”. All good company but, even after thirty years, I felt like sipping at a scotch neat and lighting up a Marlboro.

Austin, TX

Austin-Bergstrom airport one upped Detroit Metro’s trans concourse journey by setting the world record for distance from arriving gate to baggage retrieval. The arrival gate was literally the first gate at the airport, and baggage claim was at the extreme opposite end. No powered walkways, no escalators.

People walked four abreast, and mostly not honoring the keep-to-the-right norm that organizes most civilizations. So it was bump, bounce and rebound across the entirety of the airport. I did help a woman pull a bag off of the carousel, a bag firmly in her grasp, that was carrying her downstream to the flapper door at the end of the carousel. She let go and said, “Thank you”. I held on and was carried downstream five or ten yards before pulling the bag and achieving landfall.

As an old guy, some things are disconcerting. Things that no longer effect others who don’t reside in the Maine boonies. I have to marvel at a woman who could pull a suitcase on wheels behind her, while talking on the phone, with a small infant carried in a sling, and affixed firmly to her breast. Fortunately, an airport offers many things to look at, besides an immodest mommy, including signs pointing to many private areas for breast feeding.

Throughout this travel day, I did notice that many business people travel in twos. typically, a woman, dressed in conservative business attire, on her phone or typing away at a laptop keyboard. The other, a male, wearing a baseball cap, a t-shirt and short pants, no socks and sneakers. Yes, middle aged men dressed like college students, mostly staring into space.

Family

Texas visits are about an overdose of BBQ, more good food and getting caught up with family; sons, daughters-in-law, grandchildren. Unlike me, the country bumpkin, they are all socially adept, articulate and cheerful. People with purpose, all headed somewhere.

They treated me like a visiting dignitary. Because I am an amazing father/grandfather? Hardly. It is because I was married to their amazing mother/grandmother, and I am still riding her coattails through life.

I didn’t get to see much of my seventeen year old granddaughter, at least as much as my wife would have liked. Why? See “seventeen year old granddaughter”. That kid never stops: advanced placement academic honors, basketball, water polo, orchestra violinist, a French bulldog named Olive, and exceptional parents. She is in the midst of submitting college applications, with Brown and ten other universities with premed/med programs. Anywhere she wants to go will be the right choice.

The truck with no toolbox & Texas Highwaymen

Texas truck and eldest son. Taller, younger and, some day, a better looking Joe.

Generally, when something on a vehicle goes awry, I trouble shoot, buy the parts and repair. But I was without tools and equipment, and without a place to work. My sense of prices is steeped in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s. Consequently, $280/hr shop labor and gold plated parts were new to me. Places, in my life, I rarely frequent and parts I never buy.

The truck’s air bag fail light was on, as well as the trucks trouble light. Two bad sensors… or a loose ground. The more annoying problem was a broken spare tire retaining cable pulley assembly and associated brackets.

Apparently, the truck had gotten a flat several months ago, and AAA was called. The driver did not know how to lower the spare, so he cut the securing braided steel cable. Unable to put the removed flat tire back in place, he instead removed all of the brackets and assemblies, and tossed the parts and flat tire in the truck’s bed.

With repairs, parts and labor, that equaled the price of a new 1962 Chevrolet Biscayne.. four speed, dual quad, Posi-Traction 409, in 1962 currency… I decided on immediate situational surrender and nodded the go ahead, rather than doing a slow burn, and major grousing before accepting reality. No, I did not expect integrity from a GMC dealership with mechanics to feed, but I did not expect a felony. No other area dealer or independent shop would work on any truck made prior to 2014, so…

I have to thank my eldest son. The GMC dealer issue was not his doing, and the truck was otherwise in immaculate condition after his ten years of use. A year ago, it had been caught in a Texas size hail storm, and it took a beating. The windshield had been blow out, and there were baseball size dents in the hood, roof, passenger’s side door, and right quarter panel. Joe, my eldest found a body shop that did good work, and had it fixed within four weeks. Mostly new panels and a repaint.

Joe also had the truck serviced, safety inspected and he put he put new tires on it for the trip back. Thoughtful guy.

Riders in the storm…

Within the context of weather encountered on the way home, pictured above would be considered a bright sunny day. The norm was windshield wiper defeating torrential rain storms, detours around floods and storm damage, dodging night time road construction barricades, and being wheel high to a never ending caravans of trucks.

Much of the time, visibility was limited to faint tail lights close ahead and barely visible broken white lines on either side. Collectively, we were all moving way too fast; 80 mph in the weather pictured, slowed to 70 mph in the faint taillight scenario.

The first motorcyclist I encountered on the road was in Tennessee. Weather like pictured, except night time, no moon, pitch dark and road through mountains with lots of construction. Lanes would unexpectedly close, or drop two inches between adjacent lanes. Construction vehicles were parked in work lanes and shoulders, headlights facing traffic with bright hazard lights causing night blindness.

So I was buzzing along at 70 mph, keeping up with truck traffic, when a guy on a bike came out from behind a truck in trailing traffic, and proceeded to motor by. Clearly an experienced rider with determination. Good waterproof touring gear with lots of reflective surfaces, boot covers, armored gloves, one piece helmet. A Harley bagger of some type, with highway pegs and lots of lights. That guy was in the middle of nowhere and on his own. There’s some earned respect.

I remember riding an empty stretch through the desert years ago. A solo night run from Sunnyvale, CA to Las Vegas NV. Nothing but the beam of headlights ahead and wind and engine exhaust as the only sounds. It was an odd combination of peace and tranquility, and anxious paranoia. That ride was nothing, compared to what this guy was doing.

In Virginia, only in early morning and in very heavy rain, I encountered another biker. Similar attire, similar bike. He was in a hurry, at least more so than me, moving in and out of heavy truck and car traffic, zipping by me, and then splitting a lane between two tractor trailers ahead of me. About fifteen minutes later, traffic came to a stop, and then moved to a slow crawl.

The bike was down in the middle lane, maybe twenty five yards ahead of its rider, who was also in the middle lane, but in the turtle position. No one was stopping. They just merged to the outside lanes and kept moving as though they were driving around road kill. So I stopped the truck in the middle lane to block traffic and hopped out to see how the rider was doing.

Another person stopped to check on him, someone called 911 and collectively, we determined the rider was more pissed off then injured. As he said, “I can feel my arms and legs, my hands are working, so I’m good. Can someone can help me stand my bike up?”.  With a trail of motorcycle parts strewn from him to the reclining bike I thought, “Maybe not”.

An EMT guy showed up and asked cognitive questions. Then he asked the rider the same, checked him over and took… custody. It was then that I realized, I enjoy motorcycles as sophisticated machine. I enjoy riding shorter distances in good weather. Full stop. Then I resumed my journey, thankful for the truck’s encapsulating cab.

It dawned on me, that I recently began riding again because I missed my wife. All I had been doing for two and one half years since her passing, was working on shop and home projects, and mostly talking to myself. Riding motorcycles was something she and I did, right from when we were in our teens and dating, and into middle age. However, that accident helped me to accept that it was the woman on the seat behind me I found so appealing, not so much the motorcycle.

I really have to learn to arrive at these… self psychoanalytic understandings ahead of large purchases.

Angry in New Jersey…

Everyone on the road was nice, including other drivers, people at fast food stops, rest areas, hotels etc. with one notable exception in my old home state, NJ. With three lanes of traffic moving at 75-80 mpg, I passed a truck and was reentering the middle lane. Some guy in a van, pulled on from an on ramp on the right. Instead of merging and coming up to speed, he jumped two lanes of traffic and attempted to share my lane. He cut across my lane behind me, and then jumped to the fast lane and cut off traffic.

Predictably, he pulled alongside my truck, his passenger window open, flipping me off with two hands… yes, no hands driving, angry, road raged faced, and literally attempted to run me into surrounding traffic and off the road… but only briefly. Fortunately, after growing up in New Jersey, I’d learned know how to deal with drug addled, low IQ, gas bags; ignore them… drive a bigger truck.

I carried a 9mm, or stowed depending on state, throughout the trip home. It never came to mind as playing a role in that situation. Perhaps if he had succeeded in running me off the road and attempted to finish me off, it might have; threat to life. Firearm use takes serious consideration. I see them as a conclusion, not the onset of a negotiation.

I did stop in Boonton, NJ, a town I frequented in my youth when racing on Interstate 287 was popular. The town changed dramatically in the brief 60 years since. Off the exit, through an old neighborhood, left under a stone train trestle, I found a Speedway gas station.

I pulled up to the pumps and was greeted by a small middle eastern man, wearing a gas station attendants uniform of the 1950s. He collected my money and pumped the gas, extending a cheerful, yet professional persona.

The truck has a 32 gallon gas tank, but my bladder is only good for 20, so I rushed into the connected convenience store to use the men’s room, which was substantially occupied. I broke into a dance. A very tall woman in attendance, suggested I Use the ladies. In response to my raised eyebrows, she offered to stand guard. On departure, I offered I would never live down the shame. She promised she would not tell anyone. I came out to find the truck gassed up, and was given a waving send off by the attendant.

New York. Fortunately, I missed it…

No, I could not drive and get well focused images. The problem, in retrospect, is that the Sony was set to aperture priority, instead of shutter speed priority, so I achieved the less than desirable combination of blurry images with great depth of field.

Henry Hudson Parkway is an interesting study in 1935 highway design and 2024 motorists. The Parkway has the appearance of an eleven mile, two lane driveway. Bumper to bumper, 70 mph, braking to 45 mph at any of the caution marked twists and turns along the way. There were even a few rush hour traffic jammed exits and on ramps. Still well behaved drivers.

Again, one hand on the wheel and watching where I am going at 80mph. The other hand pointing a camera through the windshield at too slow of a shutter speed, capturing the majesty of the Governor Mario M. Cuomo Bridge… which replaced the Tappan Zee Bridge, that carried me and my friends to upstate New York, where the drinking age was eighteen, and we were still seventeen. We also took other bridges and the Lincoln Tunnel to enjoy similar privileges. The important thing is that I bypassed New York City.

CT, NH and ME…

The GPS, that I relied on almost completely, contained my custom map home. I was in Connecticut when it blurted out, “Bare left to Hove Avenue”. Several things happened simultaneously: the GPS reset and put itself into recalculating mode, I passed a parked state trouper at 15 mph over the posted speed limit, I discovered Hove Ave was actually the High Occupancy Vehicle restricted lane… which I was stuck in for the next thirty miles.

I didn’t mind, as the GPS came up blank after reset, including the trip route and every address I had ever saved, so I hit the “Go Home” selection and that is where it took me. Since the Garmin’s vocalization is set to British English, we both remained calm despite the unit’s abject failure.

With Maine came tolls. I did bring an E-ZPass with me for this eventuality. Unfortunately, somewhere in Tennessee, I made a sharp left, the uninstalled E-ZPass unit flew off the truck’s dash and hid until this morning. Fortunately, single dollar change from a twenty, today’s price for fast food burgers, littered the front seat and covered all Maine tolls.

Home

When I pulled into the driveway, I was home. I was so worried it would not be there when I returned. That has happened to me a lot in life. Leaves were turning and falling. The lawn needed to be mowed. Bags needed to be put away. But first, a little dinner on the porch…

Life is good.