Road Trips In The Dark

Between 10 and 4. That’s my favorite time to be behind the wheel.

At 10pm the world is shutting down. At 4am it’s beginning to stir again. In between, I have the world to myself. It’s never about wandering, that’s what makes it special. I gotta be going somewhere. It might just be going home after a late shift at a restaurant or a hustle job I found on a bulletin board in the dorm. Steely Dan on the cassette singing about crawling through suburban streets. It reminds me of a job I once had. A cup of hot chocolate I snagged for the short drive home.

Or maybe it’s the 800 mile drive between home and college; I’ve got a thermos and a load of snacks and I’m thinking about a girl.

Later on, I’m heading to my own home and I’m thinking about my family.

Living in the east it seemed like there was always a mountain. New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania… Virginia. As I came down off a mountain, sluicing through the switchbacks, the road would eventually level out and straighten. I’d come to a small town, a little Main Street, a pub, an IGA… Maybe a closed gas station or two and usually a school. Inevitably there’d be a police prowler, idling on a side street parking lights on, not bothering anybody, just keeping an eye out and earning their pay. They pull in behind me, follow for a block or two and then decide I’m not going to mess up their night.

After a long day of skiing, staying long past dark until the last lift closed. Skiing at night can be bitter cold, but the car feels like a warm cocoon. I top off at a convenience store, grab some food and hot drinks and settle in for the trip home. The mountain roads keep me awake with the constant braking and sharp curves. If it’s during the holidays I see the occasional house with a Christmas display, but mostly just barn lights and pitch black.

Now and then I pass through the remnants of a town that once was, or maybe just had aspirations. They’ll be a couple of houses, a gas station that closed long ago, and a small clapboard church. Always a church. Sometimes the church is the only thing hanging on. It always has a big white light on a pole out front, and it’s usually the brightest spot in the forlorn little town.

It took a lot longer to read that last paragraph than it did to pass through the town and now I’m into the darkness again.

I especially remember going home to our house in Virginia. It felt good pulling into our forested neighborhood, then turning into the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. The gravel announced my arrival and a porch light would come on. As soon as I open the car doors I could hear the dog going off and I was officially home.

Then next weekend I’d grab the kiddo and we did it all over again.