The anticipation that preceded last weekend’s road trip to Pennsylvania had overshadowed a tiny, worrisome detail, namely the “road trip” aspect. Nine months had passed since I had last driven a car. As I prepared to depart on my journey, I sat in the front seat of the rental car – a 2007 Pontiac Grand Prix with air-conditioning that could flash-freeze an elephant – and studied the Mapquest directions. So many miles on so many highways! So many opportunities for my neophytic car-piloting ability to result in a spectacular, fiery wreck!
Mr. Pinault bade me farewell. I kissed his face and tried to take him with me. “I don’t want to spend the whole weekend missing you,” I cooed. “And, you could drive the rental car.” Alas, the Pontiac Grand Prix was not a valuable bargaining chip, and I drove away, a dowager bereft of her doting chauffeur.
Traffic on the Mass Pike was heavy and frenetic. For the first hour, I was stuck in the right-hand lane going 50 mph behind a weathered Chateau motor home. I wanted to pass it, but couldn’t bring myself to believe the mirrors or tear my eyes from the Chateau’s ever-flickering brake lights. I listened to the same Misfits CD four times, terrified to turn my attention to changing it even though it contributed to my feeling of doom.
Halfway through Connecticut, I made a leap of faith and trusted my rearview mirror. But it was the stretch of I-95 into New York City that goaded my inner driver that has lain dormant all these months. I plunged through to the Bronx, infused with a certain feeling that all the sexy car commercials evoke: The freedom of an expansive highway system, the excitement of a fueled internal combustion engine, and the confidence that unrivaled driving prowess rest within my hands and right foot.
