Prisoner of the White Lines, part 1 − 31 March, 2007
Note: this is the first of four articles about my trip to Washington, D.C. If you're starting in the middle of the story, a better beginning is at the launchpoint.
I hate driving. However, I do not hate it as much as being searched, as I would be if I flew. No, I'm not carrying anything that would be a problem--it's the principle of the thing. Maybe I'm not willing to give up an essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety. As a member of the Creek nation, I'm well aware of what happens when your name becomes merely a data point or a number, or your rights become subject to the whims of a low ranking official.
At any rate, I paid the price -- a 13 hour drive from Gainesville, FL to Washington, D.C. Freedom isn't always free!
Want to hear what I listened to? Good. I recently posted a "Top 20" list of the Jamendo tunes I listened to on the drive. You can find it here, on my MySpace page -- go down to the "Bruce's Latest Blog Entry" and you'll find it.
I stopped every hour, whether I needed to or not, just to make sure I didn't get sleepy or develop leg cramps. I let my wife know my position using my cell phone: I simply sent her a message at every stop, telling her my approximate location, so she wouldn't worry about me.
There was no need to worry that day. Everything went right.
Until I hit Virginia.
My welcome to the state was the constant chain of signs that greet you as you drive north on I-95:
Not so in Virginia. Insane traffic, congestion, dumpy rest areas -- feh.
Then, of course, I got to D.C.
Ever see that scene in Star Wars, you know, in Empire Strikes Back, when Han and Chewie are trying to fly through the asteroid field?
Yep. That was what it was like.
My official welcome to the D.C. area was, in heavy traffic, someone's wheel exploding off their tire, their car swerving across the road, then coming to a safe stop with orange sparks flying from their bare rim. Unbelievably, no one else was hit by the flying tire or the skidding vehicle. We all flew around it like figure skaters zipping around a down-and-out Tonya Harding.
Nevertheless, I made it to D.C.-- exhausted, but in one piece.
Story continues tomorrow.
I hate driving. However, I do not hate it as much as being searched, as I would be if I flew. No, I'm not carrying anything that would be a problem--it's the principle of the thing. Maybe I'm not willing to give up an essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety. As a member of the Creek nation, I'm well aware of what happens when your name becomes merely a data point or a number, or your rights become subject to the whims of a low ranking official.
At any rate, I paid the price -- a 13 hour drive from Gainesville, FL to Washington, D.C. Freedom isn't always free!
Want to hear what I listened to? Good. I recently posted a "Top 20" list of the Jamendo tunes I listened to on the drive. You can find it here, on my MySpace page -- go down to the "Bruce's Latest Blog Entry" and you'll find it.
I stopped every hour, whether I needed to or not, just to make sure I didn't get sleepy or develop leg cramps. I let my wife know my position using my cell phone: I simply sent her a message at every stop, telling her my approximate location, so she wouldn't worry about me.
There was no need to worry that day. Everything went right.
Until I hit Virginia.
My welcome to the state was the constant chain of signs that greet you as you drive north on I-95:
- Speed Limit enforced by aircraft!
- Move vehicles out of accident lanes!
- Radar detectors illegal!
- Fine for littering!
- Get the hell out of our state!
Not so in Virginia. Insane traffic, congestion, dumpy rest areas -- feh.
Then, of course, I got to D.C.
Ever see that scene in Star Wars, you know, in Empire Strikes Back, when Han and Chewie are trying to fly through the asteroid field?
Yep. That was what it was like.
My official welcome to the D.C. area was, in heavy traffic, someone's wheel exploding off their tire, their car swerving across the road, then coming to a safe stop with orange sparks flying from their bare rim. Unbelievably, no one else was hit by the flying tire or the skidding vehicle. We all flew around it like figure skaters zipping around a down-and-out Tonya Harding.
Nevertheless, I made it to D.C.-- exhausted, but in one piece.
Story continues tomorrow.
