worth the effort

Two thousand, one hundred and ninety seven miles later, the doldrums come heavy.

When you spend five days on the road, enjoying the sights, sounds, food and music of the road, opening the front door to the house can be a letdown, even if the dogs try to make you forget that it’s all over.

I’ve oftentimes wondered why I didn’t become a truck driver, or at the very least a limo driver. You’re always on the road. There’s always something new out there. But, I guess you run the same route 100 times you start to know the hookers by their real names at some point. That certainly destroys the myth.

After unpacking the car, we settle down for a quick bite to eat, some beers and a little bit of decompression. If I had it my way, I’d stay out there. Forgo the house, the furniture, the electric and water bills. But, I haven’t. Not entirely sure why. Same reason I never became a truck driver, I guess. Well, not really. I didn’t become a truck driver because I’m a horrible driver in reverse and around corners. That means driving an 18-wheeler would not be a wise career move. Or a short one.

The silence is the first thing I notice. No radio blasting out tunes. No asphalt on rubber. No tractor trailers flying by. No wind.

Just crickets and dogs barking in the distance. It’s enough to drive a man insane. Well, a man like me.

The girlfriend hits the bathroom as soon as we’re done emptying the car out. Road contraband fills it. Empty water bottles and convenience store food wrappers are strewn about. Maps and written and printed out directions – my GPS here, that’s for wimps and amateurs – fill the floor boards. Brochures from tourist attractions not attended – including one for the Buford Pusser museum. That’s a must-see on the next drive through of the great state of Tennessee. Adamsville, TN, will definitely be visited by this guy in the future. Figure it will rank up there with Sperryville, VA, although Cooter was still alive.

I take a swig of my beer and relax a bit. All of my concerns about health issues and money issues and job issues and such are starting to return to my mind and body. It’s amazing how just being away from the house, being away from the “normal” wipes all that shit from your mind. And it’s doubly amazing how quickly all that shit comes hurdling back. It sucks, but it’s the way I’m wired, for better or worse.

My mind is already filled with the thoughts of what the next adventure will be. A jaunt to Philly to see the Mutter Museum? Or maybe the Dakotas? Gotta knock off one of those 12 pesky states left some damn time. I still want to see Fenway. And Wrigley. A football game at Notre Dame. A hoops game and a boxing match at Madison Square Garden. So many things, so little time. The Dom Rock in Texas. The entire Route 61 – or at least what’s left of it that’s not an interstate. Ernest Hemingway’s grave in Idaho and Johnny Thunders’ in Queens.

How about the Rolling Stones in concert? Or Bruce Springsteen? Some would say U2, but I  don’t.

So much living to do, so little time to do it.

But, the itch to move is back. It came in 2009. Showed up a couple times in 2010 and 2011, but I think she may be back in full force in 2012. Good for that. It’s inspiring. And daunting.

Words, words, words, words.

Yes sire, you can go to Thee Dollhouse.

Bug bites swell abnormally from this trip. Got bit many times. Most likely in the fleabag motel we stayed in outside of Augusta, Ga. Who would’ve thought the home of The Masters was such a dump. I guess it makes sense. It’s an oasis of getting away from “those people”. Of which I am one.

It was cool seeing some kid’s little teddy bear sticker on the wall. I hope that kid is doing OK after staying in a place like that. Full of angst and broken down dreams. As well as broken down people.

“Are you from North Carolina?” the lady with no front teeth asked us. “Yes.”

“I lived in North Carolina.”

“Really? Where?”

“Hardscrabble.”

“Never heard of it.”

Which is exactly the problem. I’d never been to Atlantic, NC. Until one day I saw it on a map and went there. Ditto Boliva, NC. Or Nutbush, Virginia. Sometimes, you just have to get in your car and go. Most of the time, nothing will happen. But every so often. It’s more than worth the effort you made to get there…