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Category: driving

Speeding Along

Speeding Along

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There are fewer cars on the road than this time three months ago — but more on the road than this time last week. And many of the automobiles out there are apparently speeding.

Not to condone these scofflaws but I can understand the lure of empty pavement. It’s such a departure from our normal state of affairs (see above).

I found myself putting the pedal to the metal a few weeks ago when driving down an almost empty Dulles Toll Road. But I slowed down after I spotted this sign:

“Speeding tickets available ahead.”

At least the police had a sense of humor about it.

Open Pavement

Open Pavement

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Last week I ran an errand that involved driving home via the commuting route I used to take B.C. (Before Covid). I came down Nutley, turned left on Old Courthouse then left again on Route 123 before taking a right on Hunter Mill then the rest of the way home.

There were almost no cars on the road, as you might expect, and as eerie as it was, the commuting self in me (homo commutus?) rejoiced. Here, finally, was something we all crave around here, something rare and precious — open pavement.

As these weeks of quarantine give way to something more ominous — weeks (months?) of uncertain re-openings, re-closings and second-guessings, I think back on those empty roads I saw last week. They were broad, they were empty, they were beautiful. But as we all know … they can’t last.


(An almost-empty road in Colorado. It’s harder to find pictures of empty roads around here.)

White Stripes

White Stripes

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Crosswalks in my neighborhood are getting a facelift. A set of them on a road I drive every weekend have new paint, flashing lights and big signs in neon yellow to remind motorists to stop.

In my work neighborhood I’ve started taking a new route to the office, one that involves a crosswalk and the forbearance of drivers.

It’s interesting to be on either end of crosswalk etiquette — as a pedestrian on weekdays and a driver on weekends. It helps me see how important it is to share the road, to look out for the errant ambler or the distracted driver.

More than anything else, a crosswalk encourages engagement. Those white stripes on the road can be a walker’s — and a driver’s — best friend.

Shock Absorbers

Shock Absorbers

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As a walker in the suburbs I do a fair share of pavement-pounding. But as a homeowner in the suburbs I do a fair share of driving, too.

Today I pick up a car that was in one shop and now must go to another. It’s an — ahem! — older vehicle, a tad finicky, and has lately begun swaying like a covered wagon on the Oregon Trail. Faulty shock absorbers are the culprit. 
This has me thinking about shock absorbers in general, and how nice it would be to have them for the daily irritants of life, some sort of invisible bubble wrap that would protect us from missed trains and long waits at the doctor’s office. 
I know they exist — they’re called prayer and meditation and the active practice of gratitude. But sometimes I’d like an easier, more self-indulgent solution. 
Moving Image

Moving Image

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When I woke up this morning I was dreaming I was snapping a picture. I was a passenger in a moving car, and the terrain we were driving through was like an ancient Chinese painting.

There were human-sized hills, a winding stream and perfectly coiffed trees. There was a sense of scale that made me think I could capture the landscape quickly from a vehicle.

The dream probably augurs nothing. But if it does, could it mean that I’ve become less of a words person and more of an image one? It’s happening to many of us these days.

Of course, there’s the fact that I’m writing about this experience, not illustrating it. And I’m doing it on an outmoded platform that is anything but image-friendly.

Whew! I’m probably safe — at least for the time being.

Sun Screen

Sun Screen

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Driving to Metro this morning I was squinting most of the way. It was full-on sun as I headed east. An early, low sun that slanted beneath my visor and almost blinded me at times.

I was counting on this sun, hoping it would warm the air and brighten the day. And it was complying. But it was doing it with such urgency that I felt within it the slow, sluggish air of July.

It was then — and later, as I loped around the block a couple times waiting for the bus — that I felt grateful for my sunglasses. When I put them on, the glare goes away, and I feel cooler, in more ways than one.

Even more than that, I feel protected, tucked away. As if the glasses screen me not just from the sun but from everything else, too.

Tale of the Transponder

Tale of the Transponder

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Paying for speed and ease of use makes sense to me. Which means I’m theoretically in favor of toll lanes on busy roads.  But when the toll lanes are the only lanes and the fee can hit $50 for nine miles of pavement, I have to draw the line.

Tolls on Route 66 can be avoided, though, when there are two people in the car, so Tom and I drove in together this morning. The toll, which changes every six minutes based on volume, was $34 when we passed under the sign. But four minutes later, when we hit the restricted section of the highway, the supposedly free-flowing part, the road was still clogged. We crawled along the expressway for miles, not seeing clear pavement until more than halfway through the trip.  Bad enough when you’re traveling for free, but hardly worth paying for.

And that’s not all. The main reason we drove in this morning was to avoid a $10 surcharge for not using the special transponder that has a switch you can set for “HOV2” (signaling that there are two or more people in the car). It had been a year since we rented two of these transponders and apparently had only used one.

Paying for open pavement — and paying not to use a transponder. If this is the modern world (and it most assuredly is), please drop me off in the 19th century.

Driving Home

Driving Home

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Yesterday I drove past the house of the woman who watched the girls for a year or two when I was writing a book. Her name was Eva; still is, I imagine. She’s moved back to Hungary and we’ve lost touch.

Eva was reserved and all business when we met, but she proved loving, dependable, creative and quirky. The girls loved her rice pudding and began pronouncing words with a slight Hungarian lilt. “Quintan” (the name of a little boy she also watched) became “Quintone.”

Suzanne was in second grade then so she didn’t got to Eva’s, but most days I would drop Celia off in the morning and Claire mid-day, after picking her up from the kindergarten bus. It wasn’t a perfect system, but it’s what I had.

What I was remembering yesterday, though, was how it felt to be driving the girls home in the afternoon. Suzanne would ride with me to pick up her sisters, and as we chugged home in the ancient blue Volvo wagon, I would have moments of perfect contentment: a good day of writing behind me, the promise of another to come, and most of all, the girls and I together again. Dinner was yet to be cooked, homework yet to be checked, bedtime stories yet to be read. But even then, I knew — told myself — hang on to this moment, it’s as good as it gets.

Long Drive

Long Drive

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The long drive begins like any other: settling into the seat, snapping on the belt, adjusting the mirror. And for the first few hours, it feels like any other, too: staring at the road, flipping through a newspaper (only if you’re not driving!), munching on cereal or pretzels.

But the long drive quickly asserts itself in the mind and body. An exit that would normally herald a resting place is just a milepost, barely a quarter of the way into the trip. The hopeful slant of morning sun quickly fades into the desolate phantom-puddled pavement of mid-afternoon. And as darkness falls you are still far from home.

The long drive is made bearable by good company, by podcasts — and, of course, by snacks. Cereal in the morning, pretzels in the afternoon, an apple, a Snapple and Fresh Mint Tic Tacs, which prop open even the heaviest of eyelids.

The best part of the long drive is the final few feet, pulling into the driveway, hearing Copper bark, knowing a bed — a familiar bed — is waiting upstairs.

Behind the Wheel

Behind the Wheel

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Women in Saudi Arabia have just been given the right to drive. It’s a much-needed step toward equality in that nation, and I’d glad that it’s finally happening.

Makes me think about a time in my life when driving meant liberation, which was decades ago, when I first got my license. Now driving is an irksome duty, a way to move from A to B. Now I feel more liberated walking or riding a bike than I do driving a car. It’s hard to feel free when you’re sitting in traffic or jostling with trucks on the Beltway.

Good to be reminded, though, of the pleasures of locomotion, of not being dependent on others for transport. I could be sitting on one of those buses in Bangladesh, the battered ones that seem to have been in countless crashes. Or I could be on the back of a zemidjan in Benin, hanging on for dear life as motorscooters careen around me.

But instead I have a car of my own and can propel myself wherever I need to go. It’s nice to be reminded that it’s nice to have wheels.