Road Trips
Time gets distorted on road trips. One minute I think it's going incredibly, achingly, wretchedly slow, and then I realize we've been in the car for 8 hours already and in retrospect it seems like somehow it's gone...not fast, but not as torturously slow as it should.
We still have 4 hours. I'm not sure I can even call this a road trip, because road trips have the connotation of being fun. Stopping to see giant balls of yarn or Cheese Palaces, eating ice cream at unique little town ice cream parlors, all that jazz. We're just in the car to get where we're going. That's not a road trip, that's just travel. The only elements of fun in this involve the occasional good podcast or music choice.
"I would eat some ice cream," I say, looking at Michael next to me in the driver's seat.
"Would you?"
"Wouldn't some ice cream make this drive better?"
"Would it? Or would it make it worse?"
"I don't think that's a thing. Ice cream doesn't make things worse." I think for a moment. "Unless you're lactose intolerant, maybe."
I'm not really complaining. I just want to get there. Or eat some ice cream. Driving is boring and my butt is numb.
We make this trip twice a year, from Indy to Rensellaerville, NY and back. The road signs are all familiar landmarks that help to mark our progress—the Indiana Basketball Hall of Fame, Tom Raper RVs, the giant candle store in Richmond, all the bridge signs in Columbus, OH (Polaris, Arlington, other ones I can't remember at the moment cause that was a whole 6 hours ago now) all the Erie exits, the Corning Museum, Mark Twain's Study in Elmira, NY. Once we see the sign for the Cooperstown Baseball Hall of Fame I know we're just a little over an hour away. Every summer and winter the signs are here, laid out like stepping stones.
For ten years during my childhood, from 4th grade to after I graduated high school, we used to drive from our house in Georgia to Indiana at least twice a year. 10-12 hours, depending on whether we were stopping at my dad's parents' house first or going straight to the lake. I never minded the drive very much, because I always set up a sweet spot for myself in the back seat of the van, with blankets and pillows, my dog Max at my feet, a pile of books to read. I'd lay down across the back seat (seat belts? who needs 'em?) and just sleep and read the entire time. The most annoying thing was when my brother convinced my mom to put a little tv set between the front seats so he could watch movies. Then I'd have to tune out whatever he was watching. Or when my mom decided to get us books on tape to listen to, which just interfered with my reading or sleeping.
My mom is a big fan of family fun, which on long car trips means finding fun places to eat or things to visit. Once we stopped at the sock capital of the world in some town in Alabama on our way back from the beach. A couple years ago on a trip to Georgia—she and my dad were going for a wedding and had convinced Michael and I to come along so we could visit my friend Brinna—we stopped first for dinner at what turned out to be a biker bar, then in Chattanooga we took a couple hours out to visit a Civil War memorial park, eat dinner, and walk across the bridge to an ice cream shop. This all drives Michael crazy. He just wants to get where we're going. Every stop affects our time, don't you know.
I don't know where I stand on it. I want to get where we're going. But I'd also like some ice cream.
We still have 4 hours. I'm not sure I can even call this a road trip, because road trips have the connotation of being fun. Stopping to see giant balls of yarn or Cheese Palaces, eating ice cream at unique little town ice cream parlors, all that jazz. We're just in the car to get where we're going. That's not a road trip, that's just travel. The only elements of fun in this involve the occasional good podcast or music choice.
"I would eat some ice cream," I say, looking at Michael next to me in the driver's seat.
"Would you?"
"Wouldn't some ice cream make this drive better?"
"Would it? Or would it make it worse?"
"I don't think that's a thing. Ice cream doesn't make things worse." I think for a moment. "Unless you're lactose intolerant, maybe."
I'm not really complaining. I just want to get there. Or eat some ice cream. Driving is boring and my butt is numb.
We make this trip twice a year, from Indy to Rensellaerville, NY and back. The road signs are all familiar landmarks that help to mark our progress—the Indiana Basketball Hall of Fame, Tom Raper RVs, the giant candle store in Richmond, all the bridge signs in Columbus, OH (Polaris, Arlington, other ones I can't remember at the moment cause that was a whole 6 hours ago now) all the Erie exits, the Corning Museum, Mark Twain's Study in Elmira, NY. Once we see the sign for the Cooperstown Baseball Hall of Fame I know we're just a little over an hour away. Every summer and winter the signs are here, laid out like stepping stones.
For ten years during my childhood, from 4th grade to after I graduated high school, we used to drive from our house in Georgia to Indiana at least twice a year. 10-12 hours, depending on whether we were stopping at my dad's parents' house first or going straight to the lake. I never minded the drive very much, because I always set up a sweet spot for myself in the back seat of the van, with blankets and pillows, my dog Max at my feet, a pile of books to read. I'd lay down across the back seat (seat belts? who needs 'em?) and just sleep and read the entire time. The most annoying thing was when my brother convinced my mom to put a little tv set between the front seats so he could watch movies. Then I'd have to tune out whatever he was watching. Or when my mom decided to get us books on tape to listen to, which just interfered with my reading or sleeping.
My mom is a big fan of family fun, which on long car trips means finding fun places to eat or things to visit. Once we stopped at the sock capital of the world in some town in Alabama on our way back from the beach. A couple years ago on a trip to Georgia—she and my dad were going for a wedding and had convinced Michael and I to come along so we could visit my friend Brinna—we stopped first for dinner at what turned out to be a biker bar, then in Chattanooga we took a couple hours out to visit a Civil War memorial park, eat dinner, and walk across the bridge to an ice cream shop. This all drives Michael crazy. He just wants to get where we're going. Every stop affects our time, don't you know.
I don't know where I stand on it. I want to get where we're going. But I'd also like some ice cream.