For all my law enforcement friends out there, please stop reading this story now. But if you elect to continue, be advised: I wasn’t the one driving. The Wife was.
Guess we need to start this story at the beginning. This time, the story doesn’t start a long, long time ago on that old familiar street not so far away called Flamingo.
This story begins with us leaving our zombie-ridden town of Senoia. We get along fine with all those slow-moving walkers around here; it’s the other slow-moving creatures we were trying to escape from last weekend: the gawking tourists.
For the last five years, the filming of a hit television show has transformed our sleepy little town into ground zero for zombies, movie stars and, unfortunately, mobs of tourists. Between all the walking tours and folks standing in the middle of the street taking pictures of our walled-off city, those walker stalker tourists are just about everywhere and just about to drive yours truly crazy. And if your ask The Wife, that’s a very short drive.
Before any road trip, The Wife and I address that familiar question: Who’s gonna drive? After answering that over a cup of hot “go juice” from our corner coffee shop, I climbed in behind the wheel of The Wife’s car. That’s when our road trip started to run off the road.
After making adjustments to the steering wheel, air-conditioning, floor mat, radio, and all the mirrors, I made the mistake of glancing over at The Wife. Instantly, I realized that I had ruined all of her adjustments. I knew this for certain when she said, “You know you just ruined all of my adjustments.” Mumbling a sincere apology, I started to drive.
If you factor in two quick stops at rest stops, another one for gas and snacks, and finally one for pictures under the giant 7-foot statue of a smiling welcome dolphin at the Florida state line, then the trip to Panama City should have taken about six hours.
That is, if I had driven the entire way, but this time I didn’t. The first half of the trip I drove, and I would say it was relatively stress-free. The second half? Not so much. That’s the half The Wife drove. I will attempt to explain the difference in driving theories between hers and mine.
First, I drive the speed limit. Not one mile an hour over nor under – just the posted speed limit. I figure if they wanted folks to go any speed they wanted to, they wouldn’t have wasted all that money on signs. After all, it’s called a speed “limit” and not a speed “suggestion” for a reason.
Second, even with my strict adherence to traffic laws, I’m ever vigilant for folks driving crazy. Every few minutes, I glance up to three cars ahead of us, three cars behind us, and at cars on either side.
Having been a firefighter for almost three decades, I’m used to driving emergency vehicles in the most horrific conditions. Being able to respond to ever changing driving situations at a moment’s notice is a skill not soon forgotten.
I also look for law enforcement — just to give them a friendly wave as we pass by. They have a thankless job, after all.
To summarize, when I drive, I’m not stressed out. All that was about to change. At the next rest stop The Wife was going to drive and my stress level would start to rise even before we left the parking lot. Less than an hour later a combination of torrential rainfall, a wreck, and a bunch of police officers didn’t help to reduce my levels at all.
So, what else had me stressed out for the rest of our trip? And how many police officers responded to the wreck that included a car, a truck, and a deer? And who in our car was oblivious to it all even as it happened?
Join us right here next week for those answers and the answer to the most important question: Who proved to be the best driver and so will be the only one driving on all future road trips — The Wife or yours truly?
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories since 2001. To read more of Rick’s stories, visit his blog: storiesbyrick.wordpress.com.]
