That Godforsaken Highway

All I wanted was to see my son, whatever the cost. Danny called me crazy for my decision to brave the storm instead of finding accommodations for the night. Actually, his exact words were “you’re acting like a fucking nut,” which I had no argument against.

We had finished a 15 hour shift on the railroad, shunting freight between Annandale and Mill Haven, and we were due back at the shop in under 10 hours, so he was right. I was acting out of my head.

It was a 100 kilometre drive north on Route 11, which was about an hour on a sunny midsummer day. In this weather, I was looking at least two, probably more. I knew my son would be fast asleep by the time I got home. But that didn’t matter. I needed to see him. His face was the precious reminder of why I was doing what I was doing. It was my therapy.

I exited the shop and walked down its rickety steps, grabbed the snow brush from the trunk and went to work on my car. After ten minutes of brushing, I hopped in and made several drive and reverse attempts before finally flooring it out of the unplowed parking lot of 772 Pleasant Avenue and onto King George. The main drag leading to Route 11 was in complete disarray. No matter how fast the wipers flew back and forth, it was a whiteout.

Yes, I could just have pulled into the nearest motel and counted my blessings. The Super 8’s neon sign was beckoning me from the side of the road. Besides, what good was a father if he was dead in a ditch, after all? But that was rational thought, and I was simply operating on adrenaline and emotion.

So, before I knew it, the Super 8 was fading in my rearview, and I was hanging a left onto the rattlesnake exit 324, leading me to the deathtrap known as Route 11.

From the ten-minute drive on King George leading to the highway, my hands were already gripping the steering wheel tight enough to burn the skin of my palms. I was twisting and turning the rubber back and forth like my brother used to do to my forearm when I was a kid, when he was performing what he called an Indian Burn. “Here goes nothing,” I said to myself. “Here goes fucking nothing.”

I got the Honda up to 60 km/h, and I felt like I was Jeff Gordon or Dale Earnhardt at the Daytona 500. The car was going to swerve out of control, if I kept it at that speed.

The orange light on my dash told me that the wheels were without traction. This alert would keep me company for the rest of the drive. Of course, there was no traction. How could there be? I was driving my shitty Civic into the mouth of oblivion.

After fifteen minutes of white knuckle driving, my nerves already shot to hell, my shaking fingers turned the radio to 104.9 FM. Randy Bachman was discussing bubblegum music of the 60s and 70s, on his radio show Vinyl Tap. Normally, his deep, grizzled voice was a source of calm after a long, debilitating shift, but now his serene demeanor wasn’t reassuring at all. Mainly, because hearing it just reminded me of the predicament I was in, and how long it was going to take me to get out of it. If I got out of it at all.

The snow was attacking my windshield like an angry Norse God, as the howling wind rocked the car with reckless abandon. I slowed down to 50, which didn’t get rid of the orange light, but still provided an atom sized feeling of relief.

“Just turn around, you crazy bastard. Take the next exit.Go stay at a hotel. Go see your kid tomorrow night, or the night after. Go get some sleep." The voice of rationality screamed in my head. I knew I should listen to it, but I also knew that I wouldn’t.

Within the next hour, I saw four cars in the ditch along the highway, and two transport trucks stuck on the hill between the Oldville Road and Lone Pine. The trucks unable to make the steep grade, so a slanted sleep would be the driver’s only reprieve until the storm receded.

I kept going without even a second’s thought to whether or not the people in these vehicles were in trouble. Hell, I was in trouble. I could join the party at any moment.

Sweat trickled into the burned skin of my palms, stinging it like a bitch. I stopped the car twice to wipe the sweat from my face, dry my hands on my dirty work pants, and assess the situation to determine if I was even on the road.Bachman was playing Sugar, Sugar by The Archies during the second stop, and I was sure that it was going to be the last song I ever heard.

But fate was on my side, and after two and a half hours of driving at a snail’s pace, I had my first religious experience. The sign for my city, barely visible behind a thick sheet of snow appeared. I’d never been so happy to see the damn thing. A sign that I saw multiple times a day. Glory Hallelujah. It was a miracle.

As I took exit 327, a tear escaped my eye and fell onto my lap. I turned the radio off, after thanking Randy for providing me noise that wasn’t the thunderous drumming of my heart trying to escape my chest, and drove down Main Street. Eventually, I turned on to Union, before flooring it into the driveway of my small home.

The house was dark. Of course, my wife and son were asleep. I knew that before embarking on my fool’s pilgrimage.

I sat in the car for a few minutes, unable to take my hands off the wheel. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, trying to slow down my racing heart. Breathing was hard, so I rested my head on the horn for a few minutes, before finally exiting the car.

I trudged through the snow to the side door, opened it, took my boots off and walked to my bedroom where my wife slept deeply, and my little boy, all swaddled in his bassinet, dreamed beside her.

My hands rubbed his soft cheeks, and I knew that despite what rationality says, I’d brave the storm on that godforsaken highway every night, just for a moment like this.