Heading out to the Great Midwest

Our trip to Indiana started out with one near-disaster after another. The night before the trip, we packed and prepared to sleep. A personality conflict in our group in the game Urban Dead had been looming on the horizon for some time. Tuesday night, it blew wide open.

Additionally, Suzi’s new (used) laptop is not working properly. She had it in the shop for repairs for over a week, and they scarcely touched it! So, we had to go pick it up so that we would have it for the trip.

Between the on-line drama and the computer, we had quite a time getting on the road.

You know those torn-up pieces of tire tread you see on the highway? Denise once told me that these are colloquially called “Alligators” because of their ability to bite onto your tires and never let go. There was a whole field of them littering a highway in Oklahoma. It was as if four or five complete tires had disintegrated into fist-sized bits all over the road. There was no dodging this minefield … we thought we had gotten away, though.

A few miles later, there was an awful, dragging sound under Suzi’s car. We pulled off of the road, got out and inspected the vehicle, just certain that it was going to be something horrible.

The rubber, molded plate underneath the engine had come loose and was dragging. Back when I was in high school, they called it a bash plate. I’m not sure what the real name is. I think the 'gator had torn the bashplate loose, at least it isn't a crucial part of the car.

I found some wire in the trunk and Suzi set to work. Head and shoulders under her Honda, on the shoulder of an Oklahoma freeway, vehicles zoomed past at 80 miles an hour. I heard her comment, “I am my father’s daughter.” No question about that. She got the bash plate secured and we were off down the highway again.

(photo by my friend RoguePoet)

Somewhere along the freeway was a big, friendly “speed zone” sign.

“Okay, self,” I told myself, “slow it on down.”

The speedometer read 60. The speed limit sign ahead said 45.

Do you ever have those times you can’t get yourself to do what you need to do? I just could not get it slowed down.

The police officer ahead turned on his lights instantly.

When he reached the car, I was almost laughing, I was polite, but not obsequious or servile. “You got me dead to rights, sir! I was telling myself to slow it down.”

The policeman took the whole thing in good humour, letting us off with a written warning and an admonition to “Slow it down.”

The Howard Johnson’s hotel in Effingham, Illinois was pretty nice, but the promised wireless-in-room did not seem to work. The Night Manager could not figure it out, so we had to wait to find out about how the Urban Dead drama shook down.

to be continued...