Seeking Spring

Crap. I haven't posted in two weeks.That's how it goes when you're singing the song of Illinois to the point of laryngitis. That's right. As an untrained vocalist, I first lost my voice and then couldn't write.

While the link between cause and effect might appear somewhat tenuous to you, it's not. It's a thing. And I have only to prove it.

Now fully recovered, I can share with you that I left Illinois (only mildly aware we were in the midst of the second most-overcast April ever) for Atlanta in order to drive a Porsche Cayman GT4. I had arranged it back in February.

Displaying the unerring acumen which regularly courses through this blog, I departed on a Sunday morning, the better to avoid area traffic.

And things went swimmingly. Before I knew it I was south of Indianapolis and approaching the Kentucky border. A bit of sun even broke through as I passed into Louisville. I was relieved to discover it is still warm and yellow.

This condition followed me to Bowling Green, where I was to first visit the National Corvette Museum.

And Monday morning I did. Suffice to say that if you are any kind of car buff, this is a museum you need to visit. An entire museum devoted to a single car might sound like a really thin plot line, but trust me. The folks behind it make it work.

Despite the overcast skies and threat of rain, I left deeply satisfied and ready for the trek to Atlanta. Sadly, that portion of Tennessee visible from I-75 was awash in rain. It wasn't until I reached the hills in the eastern part of the state that the sun deigned to make another appearance.

And bless its hydrogen and helium-based heart, it remained out for the rest of the day.

Fighting through what I assumed was early-rush hour traffic, I reached my hotel and settled in. Tomorrow I would explore the city.

I awoke to find Atlanta under grey skies and precipitation. If it weren't for the temperature, I would've assumed I was in Illinois. I set-out northbound on I-75, only to find rush hour volumes of traffic. I gritted my teeth and eventually arrived at my destination.

I discovered that when you're not in a car, Atlanta is actually quite pleasant. Even amidst an all-day rain. But traffic was so bad I gave up on destination number-two and returned to my hotel. I vowed the next time I got behind a steering wheel it would belong to a Porsche.

Which almost happened. But due to this life-long habit I have called eating, my body again required sustenance. I set out in the no man's land between Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport and my hotel and looked for a place to eat.

I dismissed a gas station qwik mart, some forlorn-looking mom and pops and the usual fast foot outlets before spying what my disappointed and rain-soaked soul truly craved: pizza.

The quattro formaggio pie I had (alongside a bottomless glass of Coca-Cola—go figure) was unexpectedly good. With a perfectly-baked cracker-thin crust, tasty marinara sauce infused with fennel and basil and the generously-applied four cheeses, I had morphed into a very happy guy.

Not even a motorcycle screaming down the interstate next to my hotel at 3 AM could dislodge my bliss.

At 3,276 pounds and sporting 414 horsepower, the Porsche Cayman GT4 is a prodigiously potent automobile. One able to shove you back in your seat as its naturally-aspirated flat six snarls just inches behind your head before carving-up corners like a mad chef with newly-sharpened cutlery.

This isn't a car you drive. This is a car you wear.

Tearing around the racecourse amounted to driving under the influence. I was well and truly intoxicated. Raving. And drooling. I didn't want to leave it. The National Corvette Museum couldn't compare. Nor could the delicious pizza I enjoyed the day before. It was the kind of car sex I had no idea even existed.

Sigh.

125K? Here's a kidney. And my liver. Keep the change.

But road trips are, after all, about the road. And just minutes after finishing off another pizza (sex burns a lot of calories, you know) I was back on I-75, headed out of Atlanta and its permanent rush hour and towards my next destination— Charlotte, North Carolina.

Late-afternoon turned quickly to night, and the traffic as I neared Charlotte was wearying. I'll drive a car on a racetrack all day long but bumper-to-bumper at 70 mph? Nope. After refueling in Gastonia, I spotted several motel signs and took the bait.

I ended-up at a well-worn outlet of a national chain. The clerk requested a one-hundred dollar security deposit and in retrospect, perhaps that should have been my cue.

The room was dimly lit, which was probably a good thing. The lone window was fogged with condensation and pools of water sat in a corner of the shower floor. The bathroom sink began backing up before I could finish washing my hands.

But the room's greatest surprise lay in wait until morning.

That was when I discovered a small, brown six-legged insect crawling across the white sheets of my bed. It wasn't a spider and it wasn't a cockroach. Ah. What else? A tick.

Uttering a silent prayer of gratitude it wasn't attached to me, I went to the bathroom and searched my body for evidence of a bite. There was none. But visions of Elena Delle Donne were (and are) never far from my mind.

In need of distraction, I plotted out a route that would take me through the Blue Ridge Mountains and into West Virginia. It was a sound and entirely sensible plan. Sadly, not even a second consecutive sunny day (Wait. Two? In a row?) could shield me from Interstate 81.

Wikipedia states that as a mostly rural route, I-81 has found favor with truckers, who use it to bypass more heavily-traveled routes like I-95. For similar reasons, drug and human traffickers favor this interstate also, which certainly adds another dimension to one's cross-country motoring.

While this drew the attention of a FBI task force, the medical equivalent was not in evidence as I dodged truckers and did my best not to provoke the already-aggrieved drivers of various conveyances who, in an effort to impart their sense of urgency, attempted to let no pavement go unused between their vehicle and my own.

At a rest stop I was at least able to examine that portion of my anatomy visible to the unaided eye for the tell tale bulls-eye that indicated a Lyme-infected tick bite. And what of the Blue Ridge Mountains you ask? Between the wall of trucks and the tailgators, I didn't see much of them. But I hear they're nice.

I will remain forever grateful to Burning Spear and Garvey's Ghost for preventing me from becoming a brake-checking viral sensation.

The junction with I-64 offered welcome relief from the insanity of I-81. I settled in to its uncrowded lanes and simply enjoyed the view. Whatever sights I missed earlier were compensated for as I wound my way through the rural expanses of West Virginia.

The curvy, mountainous roads restored my enjoyment of cross-country driving. Cloaked in the newness of actual spring, millions of tiny green buds lent a supple and fertile gorgeousness to the land and the blue sky above it. It was beautiful. So un-Illinois.

Did a landscape like this once inspire Aaron Copeland?

While I hadn't put in a long day of driving in terms of hours or mileage, I felt the need to linger. And so I did. I took a room in downtown Charleston and then wandered around. Appearing comfortable, clean and unpretentious, it didn't seem a city within a state mired in an opioid crisis.

I returned to luxuriate in the newly-remodeled room. Many quarters of NBA basketball later, I drifted off into a contented sleep.

The complimentary breakfasts I had grown used to took a turn. No fruit. No yogurt. No coffee. Fried meats, eggs and starches. And decaffeinated coffee. Ugh. Given the luxurious room, I couldn't complain. And didn't. I loaded the car and set out for the nearest Starbuck's.

(Yep. Beer snob. Pizza snob. Coffee snob. Sorry.)

Coffee in hand, I considered the sky. It wasn't the kind I had encountered earlier in the week outside of the National Corvette Museum. No, this was the featureless, sheet of grey that is as infinite as the universe itself.

With a goal of Auburn, Indiana (and the Auburn Cord Dusenberg Museum), I instinctively knew it would accompany me the entire way. Did I mention it wasn't raining?

A largely relaxed drive ensued. Although I must confess I provoked a patron at a gas station when she discovered the person in the ladies room was, in fact, me. But considering they were single-occupancy toilets, did it really matter?

Listen. I had consumed a grande black coffee and a 16 oz. bottle of water since leaving Charleston. My need to, um, evacuate was fairly urgent. And the person in the men's room showed no signs of leaving any time soon.

Respectful person that I am, I had raised the seat before peeing and lowered it afterwards. What the hell, lady? Maybe I should have informed her I was a carrier of Lyme disease.

I continued northward along the eastern border of Ohio, taking in the skyline of Cincinnati and what remains of Dayton. The traffic was mildly twitchy, but nothing like I had encountered on 81. Besides, I would be jumping off at Lima. No sweat.

Right?

The route which was to have seamlessly taken me into Auburn got lost. Only after repeatedly entering the destination was my phone able to direct me. But no matter. Every motel, hotel and Airbnb rental within thirty miles of Auburn was sold out. Spoken for. Or otherwise unavailable.

I hadn't even considered the possibility. A basketball tournament had taken over the area for the weekend. Three hours and change from home, I grabbed a cup of coffee and left.

As I crossed the border from Indiana into Illinois, it began raining.